Handling It
by the.casket.was.bigger
Summary: A mercilessly harrassed Kurt -  Karofsky involved/not cause - who doesn't want to worry his family and Blaine anymore than needed, turns to cutting to deal with his new panic anxiety problems, and bottled emotions. Hurt/comfort, angst, and lots of Klaine.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Notes: **

**Hello reader. :) This is not the type of story I normally read myself, but a while back I was on my tumblr, and I saw someone request a "Kurt is a cutter and there is hurt/comfort Klaine stuff" fic, and I was like, "That would be really hard to pull off, because why would Kurt end up cutting himself, that seems really out of character..." and after pondering that for a while, I came up with a story idea that I really, really liked, and thought I'd go for it and see how ya'll on teh interwebz took it. I am going to tell you now that this story is not for people who are easily offended/squeamish. If it goes the way I plan, there are going to be some uncomfortalbe parts. There is Klaine, hurt/comfort, there'll be some Burt, lots of angst, and a lot of gay bashing (in context of the story). I again stress that it is a cutting fic, and if that makes you unpleasantly uncomfortable, then I wouldn't recommend it. **

**That said, I hope you do read it, and enjoy it. Here is the first chapter. It's fairly fluffy. Please don't get used to the fluff, as I find it'll get less and less fluffy as this goes on. But for now, feel free to go and "d'awww" at the Klaine, and then promptly go review and tell me how I'm doing, because you're a wonderful human being, and would never read and leave without a comment. Amirite? :D**

**Happy reading!**

Handling It

Chapter 1:

That summer in Ohio had consisted of some of the hottest weather the state had seen in over fifty years. The local weather people stood in front of full-screen maps, dressed in thick, tailored suits which made the viewers cringe as they fanned themselves on their couches in their tank tops and jeans. The weather people would then gesture excitedly, talking about how, "It's another hot one out there, folks! Another record high!", completely oblivious to the middle fingers aimed at them outside of every television set in Ohio.

Lima was not an exception.

The end of May, as well as the end of school, had left with nothing out of the ordinary, but whatever had pissed June off, it showed the next week when the month announced its arrival with sweltering waves of heat and humidity so high it was like swimming through air. The streets were almost barren, with all the residents avoiding the outdoors like the plague.

In short, it was hot as Hell.

Inside of one of the houses in Lima, in one of the unnaturally quiet neighborhoods, in the glorious salvation of air conditioning, was Kurt Hummel, propped up against the backboard of his bed, seated next to his boyfriend, Blaine Anderson, eyes nearly unblinking in unabated attention to the glow of his television screen.

"You've seen this movie so many times. How could you possibly be so interested in it?" Blaine asked, an amused smirk on his face.

"Please, _Singin' in the Rain _is a classic. What's not to love about it?"

"I never said it wasn't fabulous. I just wouldn't think it would be the same _degree_ of fabulous after the _thousandth_ time."

"Shush, you don't know anything." Kurt waved away his boyfriend's criticism and continued to watch like it was brand new, and even tilted forward a little. Blaine merely chuckled, crossing his arms. It wasn't until about twenty minutes later, when the credits started to roll, did Kurt grant his boyfriend any amount of attention, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "Honestly, how can you wear long sleeves in this heat?"

Shrugging, the other boy said, "It's not hot in here."

"Yes, but it's about a million degrees out _there_. Honestly, have I ever even seen your arms?"

Blaine pushed his sleeves up and waved his arms obnoxiously in front of Kurt's face, before promptly pulling them back and pushing his sleeves back down. "There."

"Hopeless."

Blaine flicked his boyfriend's thigh. "I wear long sleeves for the same reason you wear ridiculously tight pants. You can't judge me. At least I'm wearing shorts. Your legs are probably fried."

Kurt draped the back of his hand across his forehead and sighed dramatically. "Oh woe is me. Blaine Warbler, what we go through in the name of fashion…"

"Clearly a travesty."

"Clearly."

They laughed together, and Blaine continued to make smart remarks about Kurt's pants, trying to grab hold of part of the fabric, but it was bound so tightly around the other boy's legs he could barely even pinch it up. Kurt rivaled this by grabbing hold of one of Blaine's arms and pushed the sleeve up again.

"You have such nice arms," he whined, running fingers down Blaine's toned forearm. "Why oh why do you insist on wearing long sleeves _all the time_? I mean, don't get me wrong, you look gorgeous in everything, but come _on_! I've been through your closet. You have like, _one_ short sleeved shirt." He looked up with Bambi eyes and stuck out his lower lip. Blaine laughed and then shrugged.

"It's just an old habit. I've worn long sleeves pretty much every day since Freshman year. Gotta admit, the Warbler uniforms certainly don't help the obsession."

"Why would you do such a thing?"

Blaine shrugged again. "I dunno. At my old school, I hung around outcasty types, which, in my neck of the woods, consisted of Goths and, I guess you would call 'em "emo" kids. Like, the kinds of kids who listened to a lot of alternative rock music and spent their time smoking in the ravine down a ways from the back of the school, who wore tight pants and long sleeves all the time. I guess I just picked up on their clothing habits."

"I wouldn't peg you as an emo kid, Blaine."

"I wasn't one, really. In all honesty, I sorta stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn't so much that I fit the clique. It was more like, I was one of two outed gay kids, and that automatically stuck me on their peg on the social status ladder. I mean, don't get me wrong, some of them were really nice, and were pretty good friends of mine, but I just did not fit the image. I had to try to get included in somehow, and the clothing was the only thing that worked. I like to think my wardrobe has gotten better since then."

"Why," Kurt asked dramatically. "Did you ditch the tight pants, but decide to keep the long sleeves?"

"Because tight pants are uncomfortable, and long sleeves aren't?"

"Yeah, and they also hide your _glorious_ arms. Seriously, Blaine, sexy dapper or not, you need to show off more flesh. I mean, to have skin this nice," he made a pointed look at Blaine's arm, which he still had grasped tightly in his hand. "Without doing any sort of moisturizing treatments, and not showing it off, well, that's just blasphemous. Besides, the emo style is simply designed to make you look like a fashion wasteland while simultaneously hiding all the slashes on your wrists."

"Hey, be nice," Blaine said, giving his boyfriend a significant look. "Not all emo kids are cutters, and even if some of my friends were, you don't need to judge 'em for it. They were good people, Kurt."

"I don't doubt that for a second, but I'm going to judge anyone who makes it so I am deprived my basic wants and needs."

"And your basic wants and needs consist of my arms?" Blaine asked, chuckling.

"Precisely."

"Ah, well then, I'll go out and buy myself a nice short sleeved shirt next time I'm at the mall. Would that make you feel better?"

"Only if I can go to the mall with you."

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of it any other way."

Blaine wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulder, while Kurt took the remote and flipped through channels. He stopped on a local one when he saw a weather warning being issued on the screen. The two listened as a, as always, nicely, but excessively, attired weather person rattled on and on, this time about an incoming storm for their part of Ohio.

"With this humidity, it's probably going to be pretty nasty," Blaine ventured.

"Probably, yes. Which means," Kurt said, turning to look at his boyfriend with a bit of a pout. "You should probably get going, sucky as that is. I don't want you trying to make that commute back to your house in a storm."

Blaine's face morphed into a pout to match Kurt's, and he 'hmphed'. Nevertheless, he said, "Yeah, you're probably right. I have to go to work pretty early tomorrow, anyway." He sighed melodramatically as he unwound himself from his boyfriend, and sat on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on. He stood up, reaching his arms up over his head, elongating his body into a big stretch, his shirt lifting up just enough to make his happy trail visible (Kurt didn't even try to hide his gaze). He yawned. "Bleh, next time, let's do something with more movement. Watching movies with you is awesome, but the lethargy makes the drive home super irritating."

Kurt swung himself gracefully over the other side of his bed. "I'll fill a thermos up with coffee for the rode," he offered.

"Nah, it's okay. If I do that then I'll just have to pee halfway there."

"Better to have a full bladder than to have your body splattered across the pavement because you fell asleep and crashed head onto a truck or something."

"I doubt that's going to happen."

But five or ten minutes later, Blaine was standing at the door with a thermos of lukewarm coffee in his hand, after yawning one too many times to convince Kurt that he was okay to drive without it. He grabbed the handle, and Kurt cringed as Blaine opened the door and a wave of heat hit them.

"Disgusting," Kurt mumbled, waving a hand in front of his face like a fan.

"I know you are but what am I?" Blaine asked playfully, receiving a well-deserved jab in the side from his boyfriend. He leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. "Love you," he muttered.

"Love you, too. Text me when you get home so I'm not panicking the rest of the night."

"Of course." He kissed his boyfriend again, and when Kurt started to pull away, he grabbed hold of him and deepened the kiss excessively until they were both chuckling, and Kurt was red in the face.

"You're letting all the air out," he mumbled, taking Blaine's hands off of him and cocking an eyebrow.

"My bad," Blaine said with a smirk. He turned to leave.

"Wear a short sleeved shirt next time!" Kurt yelled after him. Walking towards his car, his back to the door, Kurt saw him raise an arm in the air and make a thumbs up sign. Rolling his eyes in an "_oh you_!" sort of way, Kurt waited until Blaine had backed all the way out of the driveway, and watched as he drove down the street, waving while he did so, despite all the air conditioning he was letting escape from the house.

Kurt went back to his room and turned_ Singin' in the Rain _back on, fast-forwarding through the duller parts, and rewatching all of his favorite songs, singing along half-heartedly, vaguely aware of how much Blaine would tease him if he could see him right now. Eventually, he got bored of that, and began flipping through a library book – a new biography he had found about Pippa Middleton, which he hoped would give him some sort of inspiration for his musical (Pip Pip Hooray), which he had been having a surprisingly hard time writing.

He wasn't sure how long he had been lying there reading, but he was taken out of his royalty-sister trance unexpectedly by a very loud crash of thunder. It was so loud Kurt could feel it, the house rumbling and rattling beneath him. Immediately, he wondered if Blaine had made it home safely.

As if on cue, a snippet of _Teenage Dream_ belted out from his phone, which was sitting on the bedside table next to Kurt, indicating that he had just received a text from his boyfriend. He grabbed the phone and read the message.

"_Is it thundering as bad over in your neck of the woods as it is here? Damn! Anyways. Just got home – not splattered on the pavement anywhere, so no worrying. :) Love you. Call you later. ~BLAINE"_

Kurt smiled, replied something to the effect of, "I'm glad you're not dead and I love you too" and continued to read.

About twenty minutes later, as he was scribbling down a few bits of inspiration he had gotten from the book in near-illegible cursive onto an old math notebook – which, admittedly, had more doodles and little hearts with "Kurt & Blaine 4eva" drawn inside of it than actual math – the rain really started to come down, and every few minutes, there was a loud crash of thunder, which always sounded like the world was cracking in half. Over the sound of the storm, Kurt heard the doorbell ring.

Wondering who the Hell would brave the storm to stop at their door, he scribbled a couple more reminders to himself in the margins, and sat his notebook down, leaving his room to go investigate.

From the hallway he could hear that his father had beaten him to the punch. Burt was saying something, and his voice sounded distantly angry, making Kurt stopped in his tracks to listen. He couldn't make out everything his dad was saying, but he heard things like, "Why do you want to see him?" and "No business here."

Curious, but not wanting to intrude, Kurt turned to go back to his room, when his dad suddenly showed up behind him, his arms crossed, and a stern look on his face.

"Kurt, there's someone at the door for you."

"For me?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yeah." It was clear Burt wasn't exactly happy with this visitor, whoever they were, and when his father didn't offer up any explanation, Kurt took it upon himself to go find out.

He walked down the rest of the hallway, and turned the corner, to see no one standing there waiting for him, but the front door cracked just a little. Whoever this person was, Burt hadn't felt it necessary to invite him inside. Even more curious still, Kurt went to the door and pulled it open all the way.

Like the last time he was hit with a wave of overwhelming heat and humidity, this time accompanied by tiny water droplets, that were being blown onto his porch from the high speed winds of the storm. In the background, a few lightning strikes hit the ground, making the sky look illuminated for a moment, and as soon as they disappeared, the thick storm clouds made everything look ominous and dark.

Kurt looked at the person before him, and had to blink a couple of times before it registered.

There, dripping wet from head to toe, with a somber expression on his face, was none other, than David Karofsky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:**

**Hullo reader! I adore you. :D**

**Here is le chapter 2 of Handling It. It's less fluffy, but still not super srs bizz nizz yet. It's a shorter chapter - kind of a set up for stuff to come. Actually, it's like, kind of really important to the rest of the plot, so I'd read it if I were you. :) And if you feel the need to drop me a review, please feel free. I would never stifle one's desire to tell me how I'm doing on my writing. (HINTHINTHINT.) **

**Enjoy:**

Chapter 2:

"David?" Kurt asked. He tried to say something else, but he faltered, and instead, just let his mouth gape stupidly at his guest until Karofsky finally just had to start talking.

He ran a hand through his dripping hair and looked at Kurt with his all-too familiar, nervous expression. But all he said was, "Hey, Kurt," in a voice that made it sound like him showing up on Kurt's front porch in the pouring rain was a normal, everyday occurrence.

"Um… not to be rude, but what are you doing here?" the other boy asked, clearly aware that it was _not_, in fact, normal.

Karofsky glanced around, looking like he had something to say but he didn't know how to say it. Another lightning bolt lit up the sky, highlighting various features on the jocks face like a candle would. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. Kurt waited.

"I'm leaving town," he said finally.

"Like, on vacation, or something?" Kurt asked, confused as to why Karofsky felt it necessary to give him this information, but the jock shook his head.

"No. I mean, like, for good. I'm leaving Lima."

Still completely bewildered at not just the information he was receiving, but the entirety of the situation, Kurt merely shook his head and furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't understand, David. What's going on?"

To his surprise, Karofsky suddenly took his own hands and grabbed hold of his hair, tugged a little, and let out a disgruntled groan. He clinched his eyes shut tight, and said, in a strained voice, "They know about me, Kurt."

"Know about you? Who's 'they'?"

Karofsky relaxed his arms and face, and cast Kurt a look of total resignation. "Azimio. Azimio found out I'm gay, and now everyone knows. Or they will."

"What? How? I swear I didn't say anything…"

"I know. I know you didn't. It was…" he trailed off.

"It was?" Kurt prompted.

"It's embarrassing."

"You gotta give me something, here, David."

Sighing, Karofsky launched into an explanation. "Azimio and I were hanging out over at my place yesterday in like, the early afternoon, or something. I don't remember the time. Anyway, I like… I went to go get something to eat out of my kitchen, because I was really… really hungry. It wouldn't have been that big a deal, except… except Azimio thought he'd fuck around with my computer… like, he was trying to find something incriminating on my web history…"

It took a minute, but dawning realization hit Kurt, and he gasped, bringing his hands to his mouth. "Oh no," he moaned. "And he did, didn't he?"

"I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, I always clear my history after I… after… I mean, I just do. But this time I didn't, and this is the time he decided to look…"

"What happened?" Kurt asked, hands still over his mouth, his eyes wide.

"Well, like I said, I was in the kitchen, and when I came back he was standing up and looking at me like I was a cockroach or something, and I was like, 'hey man, what's up, why are you looking like that?', and he pointed to my computer, where my web history was open, and I realized what had happened, and…" he stopped to take a breath – he was talking really fast. "I tried to deny it, of course, but it was just too obvious, and I wasn't making up very good excuses. He didn't buy a single word of it."

"I take it his reaction wasn't ideal after that?" Kurt guessed, his voice small. Karofsky shook his head sadly.

"Nah. After he got over the shock of it, he went on about how he couldn't believe he had changed in the same room as me, and let me sleep over at his house, and just all this stuff… well, you know. Stuff he and I used to say to you." He added the last part with a sheepish, guilty shrug.

"I understand."

"It got even worse, though. He told me that he was going to tell all the guys, and make sure the whole school knew so they could steer clear of me if they had any sense. And then… then my Dad came home."

"He didn't tell him for you did he?"

"… Does telling him 'Mr. Karofsky, I hate to inform you that your son's a faggot' and then leaving the house count?"

"Oh David, he didn't, did he? What'd your dad say? Was he… did he take the news okay?"

"I guess so. I mean, I had no choice but to tell him after what Azimio said to him. He took the news pretty well. He told me that he loved me no matter what, and stuff like that."

"At least that's something."

"Yeah, but… but he told me that he wants us to go and stay with his sister in Cleveland for a year. He wants me to go to school there next fall, because he's afraid of what I did to you will happen to me at McKinley now that everyone knows I'm… now that they all know. He said he's going to rent the house out, and we're going to go as soon as we can, and when I go off to college, he'll come back. He says it's for my own protection."

Kurt's hands still had not dropped. "Jesus, David, I am so, _so_ sorry."

"Yeah, well," the jock sniffled a little, and he looked away stubbornly, even at this stage of vulnerability, not wanting to show weakness. "I actually didn't come here just to tell you that."

"Oh?"

Karofsky dared to look at him again, trying hard to keep his emotions at bay. "Yeah. I... I came to warn you."

Finally, Kurt moved his hands from his mouth, and crossed his arms in front of his chest instead. "Warn me of what, David?"

"Azimio. He's mad. I mean, he's like, _really_ mad. I know how he thinks, Kurt, and I know he's going to have to take this out on someone, and with me gone, I'm pretty sure he's going to go after you. He yelled about it a little, actually, about how you were probably the reason I'm like this. That I caught your disease or something stupid like that… I dunno, it's just… be careful, okay? Promise me you'll be careful. The stuff we've done to you and the Glee club… it hasn't been nice by any stretch, but it's not even close to what I think Azimio and some of the other guys are capable of.

"I don't want to scare you, but I don't like, want you to put your guard down or anything. Just… just promise me you'll remember that, when I was tormenting you, I was doing it because I was scared and confused. But when Azimio and the other guys do it, they aren't confused about a thing. They're doing it out of hate. Plain and simple hate. And they have plenty of it."

Kurt didn't know what to say. The wind rushed through the air, and the tree branches swayed to and fro almost menacingly. The clouds only seemed to be getting darker, and the rain pelting down only got harder. Finally, he nodded.

"Okay. Thanks for telling me."

"Hopefully they won't do anything," Karofsky said, sort of as an afterthought. "But just in case…"

"Just in case."

That was the last time Kurt saw Karofsky while the jock was still living in Lima. He heard later that he and his father had found someone to rent their place fairly quickly, and had sped off toward Karofsky's aunt's house soon thereafter. Kurt decided to only tell his father snippets of the conversation, and may have added a few of his own, telling his father that Karofsky was leaving town (but not telling him why), and he wanted to stop by to apologize one more time before he left. (Not entirely true, but Burt had believed it.) Kurt wasn't actively scared of what Karofsky had told him about his old, jock friends, but he knew his father would be, and after causing him so much grief, after him skipping out on his honeymoon to make sure he was safe, Kurt couldn't bring himself to worry his father anymore. Vowing to keep quiet, maybe even if something did happen, Kurt had went back to his room to continue scribbling notes into his notebook, Karofsky's warning not far from his mind, but not at the top of it either.

But that night, while outside the storm still wailed on, and the rain still hit the windows and roof so forcefully Kurt was afraid they'd shatter and cave in, was the night the first letter was delivered.

Slipped into the mailbox in the shadows of the streetlamps and storm clouds, while everyone was fast asleep, gloved hands – mostly just for effect – slid the white envelope, kept dry as dirt despite the weather outside, into the Hummel-Hudson mailbox, without a return address in the corner. Kurt would be the one to get the mail the next day in early afternoon, and he would find the letter without anything but "KURT" scribbled on the front.

The contents would read "_**WATCH YOUR BACK, FAGGOT. IT ONLY GETS WORSE FROM HERE.**_" printed boldly in red magic marker, as if to simulate what it would be like if it were written in blood.

Kurt would fold the letter back up discreetly, and put it back in its envelope, shoving it away in his bedside table drawer, so that his family, and Blaine, need not know about it. He would keep it to himself, hoping that it was just a onetime thing, done out anger and ignorance.

What he didn't know, however, was that it was just the beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:**

**Hola reader! Okay, so here's where things get a little spicy. (Spicy? That is so not the right adjective, but I'm way too tired to think of the right one.) This is the last "setting everything up so you understand why this is possible in the first place" sort of story, and the end of this is the start of the self-mutilation part of the story, so this is basically where plot heats up. (Heats up. Maybe that's where I got spicy from? Who knows?) Anyway, this one's a lot longer. Uncomfortable gay bashing in this one, way more so than in chapter 2. Indeedy.**

**Happy reading.**

**(Oh, and as always, REVIEWS MAKE ME A HAPPY CAMPER! 8D )**

Chapter 3:

After almost an entire week, the letter incident was just about clear from Kurt's mind. He had told Blaine about Karofsky's unexpected visit on his doorstop, telling him more than he had told his father – why he was leaving town, and what had happened when Azimio had found out – but again he avoided mentioning the jock's warning about his ex-friends and their vengeance. Blaine had been as sympathetic to Karofsky's troubles as he could be, but Kurt knew it was mainly for his benefit – Blaine still wasn't particularly fond of the jock who had sent Kurt running to Dalton in the first place. He didn't like seeing Kurt hurt, no matter what the reason.

And that, seemingly so, was that. Everything was back to normal. Blaine was working about twenty hours a week at a Gap, after not getting into the Six Flags show. (The manager at the Gap knew him from the Warblers, and was almost beside himself with respect and admiration at the natural, talented charm that was Blaine Anderson. Getting the job had been a snap.) Meanwhile, Kurt, inspiration now completely restored, was working hard on his musical, which Blaine still couldn't listen to him talk about without chuckling and trying to resist – normally to no avail – rolling his eyes.

"You just don't understand the social importance this musical could have," Kurt would say pointedly, to which Blaine would laugh and nod his head vigorously, saying,

"You're absolutely right. I haven't a clue."

Guard officially down, Kurt was thrown completely off course when he was checking the mail one muggy afternoon, after arguing with Finn over whose turn it was to grab it. (Finn had won the argument by simply not moving from the couch, knowing Kurt wouldn't be able to stand the thought of the mail just sitting there in the box.) He came back inside, throwing the small stack of letters onto the table, casting an annoyed look in the direction of the living room where his stepbrother was continuing to lounge without guilt, when he noticed, through the splayed out way the letters had landed, one envelope which had no addresses written on it, and he could see a bold, letter "K" scribbled on the front.

He pushed aside the other envelopes, which contained several bills, a "Why Don't You Subscribe to Us So We Can Pressure You to Buy Stuff" postcard thing, and a letter for Finn, which was probably from Rachel (_"I just think snail mail is so much more romantic than just phone calls! Please, can we try for it for a little while?" _Kurt had overheard her telling her stepbrother). The other letters clasped tightly in his hand, he saw the nearly unmarked one in full view. As he suspected, the "K" actually was the start of the word "KURT", it addressed, once again, in bloody, bold red.

Kurt chewed on his lower lip for a moment, as he contemplated the letter. Should he open it? Presumably, it was just another empty threat, sent by a couple boys who were mad that their friend had turned out differently than they had expected or accepted. Why should he aide their ignorance? But in truth, he knew he would not be able to _not_ open the envelope. Adrenaline already rushing from the mere worry of what it might say was more than enough reason to read what that envelope might contain.

Not there in the dining room, however. He set the other letters in his hand back down in a nicely stacked pile, and then took the one addressed to him, and hurried to his room, mumbling to Finn, "Letter for you on the table," and scooting past fast so that the lounging boy didn't have a chance to ask him to bring it to him.

Plopping down on his bed, he rifled through his bedside drawer and pulled out his letter opener (which he had gotten in order to practice opening rejection and acceptance letters when he was older), and slid it across the top of the envelope with ease, careful not rip any of the contents. He then shook the contents out into his hand, the red bleeding through the back of the page in an illegible mess. It was longer this time, he could tell. Unfolding it, he read,

"_**HOPE YOU HAVEN'T GOTTEN TOO COMFORTABLE. WE HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN YOU, DON'T WORRY. KEEP YOUR GUARD UP, FAGGOT. YOU NEVER KNOW WHERE WE MIGHT SHOW.**_"

His stomach did a few flip flops. This seemed angrier than the last one – fueled, somehow, with more hate. What if one of his family members had gotten the mail? What if they had asked him what the strange, unaddressed envelope, which must have been placed there by hand, contained? What would he have told them?

Suddenly thankful his brother was a gigantic couch potato, Kurt refolded the letter into a nice, even rectangle, and slid it back into its home. He then stuffed it in the way back of his drawer, where the other letter sat the same way he had left it a week or so ago, and closed it shut, trying not to think of the implications of what had just happened.

The first phone call came when Blaine was over at the Hummel-Hudson house one Thursday afternoon a few days after the second letter incident.

It was an average day, hot and humid as any, both boys thankful to be away from their respective job and writing endeavors. Kurt had kept to his agreement about not spending every hangout session with a musical and a lethargic day on his bed. Instead, they were taking turns doing improvisational performances for one another, doing their best to come up with suitable dance moves on the spot. (Finn had joined them until he managed to almost break Kurt's desk lamp in a particularly horrifying show of choreography when he sang Aerosmith's "Walk This Way", and the boys had promptly sent him out.)

"Bravo!" Kurt cheered, clapping his hands in his cutesy, held-up-close-to-his-face way, as Blaine finished a riveting rendition of "Alejandro" with dramatic hand gestures and facial expressions abound.

He collapsed next to Kurt, breathing heavy and grinning. "That was fun," he said, fanning himself. "Although I'm not sure it's gonna make me any less tired than if we were just watching a movie."

"There's plenty of coffee to share, I promise."

"Is that your phone or mine?"

"Huh?"

"One of our phones is ringing."

Listening closely, Kurt could hear what Blaine was referring to. Muffled vibrations sounded from underneath the tangled up comforter on the bed. Digging around furiously like wild, burrowing animals, Kurt said, a little breathless, "Got it, it's mine!" as he held up his lit up, vibrating phone. He glanced at it, furrowed his brow and mumbled, "Don't recognize the number…" before pressing the talk button, just in time.

"Hello?" he asked into the receiver, not sure who to expect on the other end. At first he didn't hear anything. "_Hello_?" he asked a little louder. That's when he heard it. A deep, muffled voice, as though they had a piece of cloth or a hand pressed up lightly on their mouth, rumbled through the phone into Kurt's ear.

"Stupid faggot, watch your back."

The sound of a phone hanging up came next, and a second later, a very loud amount of nothing droned on, snapping Kurt out of his surprised, mouth-gaped moment of fear.

"What's wrong? Who is it?" Blaine asked, suddenly worried. Kurt almost told his boyfriend what he had just heard, but thought better of it, shook his head, took the phone off his ear, and smiled in what he hoped was a sincere smile.

"Wrong number."

"Oh." Blaine looked a little quizzical, but Kurt didn't give him a chance to inquire further. He stuffed his phone in his pocket and jumped to his feet.

"My turn," he said, not really feeling up to singing after the call he'd just received, but wanting to distract Blaine.

"The floor is yours."

Kurt thought a moment and then belted out the first thing that came to mind. For just a little while, he got into the music and forgot about the sick call he'd just received. What did it matter, anyway? He'd gotten a call like this before. Ignorance, he reminded himself, was all this was, and he would handle it just fine, without feeding it.

"'Telephone'," Blaine said, nodding appreciatively once his boyfriend had finished. "Gotta love Gaga. Are we having some sort of theme here, or…?"

"No, no, you can sing whatever you wa-" but he got distracted. Against his leg, in his pocket, he felt his phone vibrating again. He grabbed it and looked at it briefly. It was the same number as before. This time he chose not to answer it, placing the phone back into his pocket and shrugging at Blaine. "Same people," he muttered.

"Maybe you should tell them they're calling the wrong person?"

"They'll figure it out when they hear my voicemail. It's your turn." He sat down on the bed, trying not to look as wary as he felt.

"Hmm," Blaine thought aloud as he stood and took his place on the mock dance floor that was Kurt's bedroom carpet. He smirked. "Okay, here."

He started to sing "S&M", dancing as dirtily as he could, complete with hip-thrusts, air-lasso throwing, and head whips. Kurt was more than fully engaged in the show for a good minute, turning bright red in the cheeks at all the best parts. That is, until he felt his phone, once again, vibrating against his leg. He didn't even bother checking to see who it was – he was certain he knew. His face fell instantly, then, realizing how that must look to Blaine, he tried to put a happy face back on, but felt like he was grimacing rather than smiling.

When Blaine finished, he bent forward and put his hands on his knees, taking quickened breaths. "That," he said through pants. "Took some effort." He walked over and grabbed a pillow off the bed and smacked Kurt over the head with it playfully. "And you didn't even pay attention to half of it!"

"I did too!" the other boy cried, trying to defend himself, even though his mind really had been otherwise occupied about wondering why these people kept calling his phone. He thought very seriously about telling Blaine about it, knowing he would want to know, and realizing that if the roles were reversed, he would be furious at his boyfriend for keeping that secret from him. But telling Blaine about the phone calls would probably lead to telling him about the letters, and that, inevitably, would lead to telling him what Karofsky had said about Azimo, and he didn't really want that conversation to happen – he was sick of everyone worrying about him. He could handle it on his own.

"Hello in there!" Blaine was saying, waving a hand over Kurt's eyes. He jumped and blinked a few times.

"Huh?"

"Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere, I've been sitting right here."

"Honestly, Kurt, with as much hip-thrusting as I did, I must deduce that you just don't find me that sexually attractive," Blaine said in a mock-offended voice.

"You're insane."

"There is truly no other explanation."

"I promise you're the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. Say for maybe young Marlon Brando."

"Oh yeah?" Blaine was remarkably close to Kurt's face all of a sudden.

"Yeah."

Blaine leaned over and whispered into his boyfriend's ear in a low voice. "Prove it."

No other prompting needed, Kurt took the other boy's face in his hands and kissed him hard on the lips. Blaine reciprocated the action. Their lips parted a little, and Blaine took this as an opportunity to slip his tongue into the mix. He could almost feel the heat radiate off of Kurt's cheeks, as he went red very quickly, both from arousal and vague prudence. Kurt was suddenly thankful kissing was done with eyes _closed_.

Blaine pushed Kurt forward a little, until they were lying flat on the bed. Underneath him, Blaine could feel Kurt's heart pulsing at the speed of light. Grinning, he slipped a hand under the other boy's shirt and felt his way around the smooth skin on his back for a little while, taking a chance against his boyfriend's somewhat inexperienced, awkward perspective on physical affection. Kurt shuddered, turned redder, but did not pull away.

A weird feeling came from Kurt's left leg, and Blaine pulled away just long enough to say, "I think your phone's ringing."

"Let voicemail get it."

And so, as Blaine obeyed this order, returning his mouth to its proper place, the unknown number, which just a few minutes ago, had been causing Kurt so much trouble, went unanswered for a third time.

It wasn't until his boyfriend kissed him goodbye and waved with a hand holding a thermos of coffee did Kurt dare to take his phone out of his pocket. It read "three voicemails", much to his dismay. Again, he had an inner turmoil of "should I or shouldn't I?", and, like with the letters, reluctantly opted with the former.

"You have three unheard messages," a robot woman's voice told him. "First unheard message," it announced. Kurt waited. The message started out with the same, eerie silence the phone call had started out with. Then,

"What's wrong faggot, don't want to pick up your phone? Doesn't matter. We told you: it only gets worse from here."

Grimacing, Kurt pressed "9" to erase the voicemail.

"Message erased. Next message."

Shuffling, heavy breathing, and, "You're such a fucking faggot, and you keep turning everyone around you into faggots." Distant laughing could be heard behind the voice that was muffled and rough in Kurt's ear, so he knew there was at least more than one other person involved in this. "I guess that explains that gay glee club you're in. A whole club of faggots, spreading your faggy disease."

Kurt was chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to remind himself, over and over "ignorance, ignorance, ignorance," but not really believing it at all. With shaking hands he pressed "9" and waited for the last message to sound.

"Message Erased. Next message."

The voice was a different person's this time. It was just as muffled, just as unrecognizable, but it was a little higher, and was talking in a grotesque sing-song voice, as it chanted cheerfully, "What do you do with a faggot's head? Drag it up and tie it up, tightly to the bed. Cut it up and chop it up and leave it left for dead."

Kurt didn't even bother to press "9" this time. He turned his phone off and threw it away from him onto his pillow, as if it suddenly had caught flame. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, and he felt his heart going at a million times faster speed than was normal. He clamped his eyes shut and started taking long, deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. Never in his life thus far, had he gotten so much hate. Not even when Karofsky had threatened his life. This was different. What the jock had said was right – bullying fueled by nothing but hate was a lot scarier than anything he was used to.

'I should report this,' he thought to himself, starting to pace around his room, suddenly too ancy to stand or sit still. But what good would that do? Although he knew Azimio was behind this somehow, he had no idea who else was involved. He could try having the numbers traced or blocked, or having his phone number changed, but all of those things would risk his family and Blaine finding out what was going on, and after keeping it secret this far, he had no intentions of worrying them. He was 17. He could handle himself. He could handle this. He just had to think of a way.

So instead, he stored the voicemails away in the back of his mind and went and got ready for bed. He called goodnight to his family from his room, not trusting himself to actually face them. After his numerous facial treatments, he was finally in bed, a new Pippa Middleton biography (this one he had ordered on Amazon) in his hand.

He pulled down his covers, settled in, and then took his phone off the pillow. When he did so, he saw he had a new text message. It wasn't from Blaine, telling him he had made it home, but it wasn't the other number either. He opened it.

"Like our rhyme 4 u faggot? Im a poet & didnt even no it."

They were using more than one phone number, and Kurt wondered distantly, while his stomach sank and a wave of nausea hit him, if it was in case he tried to trace or block them, like he had thought of doing so before.

He erased the message and went to turn the phone off when he remembered Blaine still hadn't gotten a hold of him. He couldn't put away his phone until he knew his boyfriend was home safe, no matter the risk. So instead, he put the phone on his bedside table, and began to read. He read two full pages without really taking a word of it in before his phone started ringing, the vibrator making an awful noise against the wood of his table.

He looked. It wasn't Blaine. It was the number the text had come from. He forced himself to ignore the loud vibrations the phone was making and read.

"… the stunning sister of Kate has become all a buzz in no time at all…"

The phone gave a short vibration to let Kurt know a voicemail had been left. He didn't bother with it.

"… the stunning sister of Kate has become all a buzz in no time at all…" he read the same sentence again without even realizing it. His phone began ringing again. Glancing, he saw it still wasn't Blaine, but it was a new number entirely. But he knew better than to answer it.

"…the stunning sister of Kate has become all a buzz in no time at all…" hadn't he read that already? The phone stopped rattling against the table, a voicemail was left, and then it started up again. Kurt's chest began to throb with how fast his heart was going, and adrenaline started pouring into his stomach. Why wouldn't these people just leave him alone? He hadn't done a thing to them.

He could picture them – Azimio, and other nameless faces of the football team, sitting around outside at a park somewhere, probably with a few beers, laughing as they all took turns dialing Kurt's number that they got from God-knows-where, leaving threatening messages with muffled voices, dying from the hilarity of it all.

"…the stunning sister of Kate has become all a buzz in no time at all…" By this point it was the fourth or fifth time the phone had started ringing – he had started to lose count. He was staring at the same sentence for a good five or ten minutes, just listening to the rattle of his phone against wood, hoping it would subside. This time, he reached over without bothering to look at the number, pressed the talk button, and said with a tired, miserable voice,

"What the Hell do you want?"

"…Kurt?" Blaine's voice sounded through from the other end of the phone. Kurt was overcome with the feeling of relief and horror at the same time.

"Oh, Blaine, sorry, I… I fell asleep waiting for you to call, and I didn't realize that was you calling just then." He tried to make his voice sound drowsy, like he had just been woken up. "I trust you made it back home?"

"Yeah… Kurt, are you sure you're okay? You sound a little… morose."

"That's just me being groggy, don't worry," he tried to assure. A beep sounded in the phone, closely followed by another a few seconds later. Kurt realized this was the call-waiting, and knew who had to be on the other line. "Hey, can you… do you have to go right now? Could you talk to me for a little bit?"

"Well, yeah, I can. Why, what's up?"

"Nothing. I just… I just like hearing the sound of your voice."

"You're sure that's all that's up?"

"Of course."

"Well… alright."

They talked for about twenty minutes about nothing in particular. The first few minutes of the conversation had been littered with beeps from the call-waiting, but after a while they finally subsided. Feeling exhausted after he was pretty sure the phone calls had stopped, he murmured into the phone,

"Hey Blaine, would you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Could you sing to me?"

"Over the phone?"

"Yeah."

"What do you want me to sing?"

"Anything," he yawned, and he could hear Blaine chuckle on the other end.

It was a quiet a moment, and then,

"_Golden slumber kiss your eyes,  
>Smiles await you when you rise.<br>Sleep,  
>pretty baby,<br>Do not cry,  
>And I'll sing you a lullaby.<em>

Care you know not,  
>Therefore sleep,<br>While I o'er you watch do keep.  
>Sleep,<br>pretty darling,  
>Do not cry,<br>And I will sing a lullaby.

"

And Kurt was fast asleep before the last note even touched Blaine's lips.

The next morning, Kurt blinked his eyes open groggily and rubbed his face with the back of his hand while he yawned. He lifted his head and saw his phone lying next to him on the pillow, sticky and smudged from the sweat of his face. He picked it up. 7 unread messages. 'Perfect,' he thought to himself. 'Exactly what I needed to wake up to.'

He sat up and dialed his voicemail number. The robotic woman talked at him for a minute, before the first message came on. He pressed "9" as quickly as he could, but he still heard the word "faggot" uttered in a muffled voice before the robot voice said, "Message erased."

He did this to the other six messages, trying to erase them before he heard any of what they said. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. He felt his stomach plummet lower and lower with each "Next message." was spoken so calmly from the robot woman, who clearly didn't understand how sickening this was.

Finally, she said, "No new messages, and one saved message… First saved message."

Before Kurt had time to react, the sing-song voice from yesterday was suddenly playing in his ears.

"What do you do with a faggot's head? Drag it up and tie it up, tightly to the bed. Cut it up and chop it up and leave it left for dead."

He pressed "9" four times in a row, ignoring the, "invalid entry, please try again," from the woman who lived in his voicemail. He began to feel really nervous again, and sick, like he might throw up. This was insane. Certainly it wouldn't go on at this degree anymore. Certainly.

Shaking, heart pounding, and stomach clinched, Kurt dropped his phone back onto his bed and went into the bathroom to take a shower, hoping it would calm his nerves. He stripped down, turned on the water extra hot, and got in, letting the hot steam embrace his body and calm his tense muscles.

He ran a hand down his leg and felt that it was scratchy. He grabbed the shaving cream and put some on his leg and grabbed his razor. (Yes, he shaved his legs, and as he had told his father when he started doing so, "Just because I prefer to look well-kempt instead of a grizzly bear, does _not_ make me into a stereotype, _thank you very much_.") He did the first leg, missing several spots, his hands shaking worse than he thought from the nerves.

He readied the other leg, and took the razor down in a long swoop. It must have been during a particularly nasty tremble, because out of nowhere, he shook even harder, uncontrollably, for just a moment, making a big, jagged cut in his skin.

"Damnit," he hissed, putting his leg under the water stream quickly to get off the rest of the shaving cream. Blood streamed down his leg, and the sliced flesh stung even worse when the water hit it. He gave a sharp intake or breath, and tried to stopper the bleeding a little, but it not really helping. For a moment he just stood there, letting the wound leak freely, the small pool of water at his feet turning red.

Finally, the bleeding tapered off on its own a little bit, and Kurt washed the rest of his body and his hair with his many products and soaps, feeling considerably calmer now. The sharp pain, although unpleasant, had been the perfect distraction from his anxiety. Now he was breathing easier, was fresh and clean, and say for a pretty nasty cut down the side of his leg, he was physically doing alright.

He got out of the shower, dried off, and thought nothing of it, as he went to the kitchen to get some breakfast. When he would think about it later, wondering where it had all started and why, he would pinpoint it back to that moment in the shower. That moment where the blade made a wrong turn and his skin broke apart like paper being torn.

But he didn't know that now – didn't know that those first phone calls, and the razor which now sat on the porcelain edge of the bathtub, a small, almost invisible trace of Kurt's blood still resting on the blades – was the start of something more than even Azimio and his gang could have ever predicted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes:**

**Glorious Readers, hullo!**

**This is where shit gets uncomfortable. :) For the record, I'm not a cutter, but I do have a panic-anxiety disorder, so everything you read here about anxiety, it's pretty much first-hand experience. I don't know if that matters at all, but I sometimes like to know where inspiration comes from when I'm reading a fic. Also, someone asked about Pippa Middleton biographies, and how many there could possibly be, and it made me laugh. I work at a library, and I also checked Amazon. From what I can tell, there are like, six. :D **

**I am also not sure where Kurt's bedroom is, but for purposes of plot-development, it's on the second floor. Deal with it. :D**

**It's 2:20 am where I live. I need to stop talking/typing/whatever this is. Here's the chapter. I'll have more for you soon. Also, reviewing my fic counts as public service hours, so you should totally do it. (Wouldn't that be awesome if that was actually a volunteering job? "Go review fanfiction for 20 hours!" "Uh... okay sir. I'll try... :D")**

**Bedtime for me. Reading time for you. Enjoy:**

Chapter 4:

A combination of some blend of coffee drink mixed with the distant hint of mint toothpaste, and that other taste which could only be described as "mouth" – that's how Kurt categorized what kissing Blaine tasted like. He liked to do this – over think the information his senses were taking in so he could think about it later. Like, if he was bored, he could just think about how Blaine's face always felt a little stubbly (not in the itchy, gross way, of course), even when he was clean shaven, or how when he was kissing Kurt, his breath was shallower, and came from his upper chest, even though anytime else, he always breathed from his diaphragm, like a trained singer would do.

Today, as Blaine was pressed over top of his body on the couch, where they were taking advantage of the fact that no one was home for once, not even Finn, Kurt was trying to come up with some sort of metaphor to describe to himself what Blaine's eyes looked liked when they made direct contact with his, but all he could think was, "Daaaaaaamn!", all eloquent word choice possibilities stolen by raging hormones.

"You're really gorgeous, you know that?" Blaine murmured, his face dangerously close to the other boy's – close enough that Kurt could feel the heat of his breath on his face. (He'd make a note of that and think about it later.)

Kurt's cheeks grew hot, and he was certain he lit up like a Christmas light. It was a good thing Blaine thought blushing was adorable, because otherwise he'd be fucked – and not in the way that normally made his cheeks turn scarlet in the first place, whenever the topic was brought up. After months of dating, the most the two of them had done was roll around on the bed with their hands up each other's shirts, and for Kurt, that was more than enough, and for Blaine, who, although would never say no to the opportunity to go further, was ultimately happiest with whatever made Kurt comfortable.

And so, still burning, Kurt said, "I'm nothing compared to you."

Blaine rolled his eyes in a 'you're insane, but adorable' sort of a way, and then leaned down to kiss him with his mint-coffee-mouthy flavor.

This was one of the better moments of Kurt's week. The phone calls, although more sporadic, were still coming on a daily basis. He had gotten another letter – this time just a written down version of the oh-so-classy poem "what do you do with a faggot's head", and he could have sworn someone had been throwing pebbles at his window a couple nights prior, but when he pulled back his shades, there was no one to be seen.

Blaine, and all of Kurt's family, were still completely oblivious to the harassment he was receiving, and he had no plans on telling them anything. Sure, maybe he had to find a way to make it so his phone wouldn't vibrate so loudly. And perhaps he felt a groan every time a friend would leave a voicemail, because it would mean shuffling through all the hate messages in his inbox that he had simply stopped going through after a while. And yeah, he had suddenly become _obsessed_ with getting the mail, even on Saturdays, when everyone was home. He made a point of it, making some excuse to his inquiring family that he was just practicing getting excited and being prompt about retrieving mail for when he would need to be when he was auditioning all the time – an excuse that was absurd and Kurt-esque enough to be believed. But none of this meant that he wasn't handling this well. In his mind, if everyone was still kept in the dark about it, then he was doing it right.

He did notice a few things that weren't quite right with himself as of late, however, and he hoped with all his might that no one else noticed them too. Like how he was suddenly sleeping a lot less, and was a little bit more irritable than usual. (He realized this when he just about bit Finn's head off when he had grabbed him a regular Coke out of the fridge instead of a diet.) Or how, now, when anything even mildly stressful happened – writer's block, thinking someone else might have gone to get the mail, Blaine taking too long to let him know he had gotten home safe – he would immediately start to feel a bit of adrenaline pouring into his stomach, as though he was suddenly really nervous all the time. He chocked it up to being tired and annoyed at the ignorance of Azimio and his friends, and tried to ignore it the best he could.

It was when he was curled up with Blaine, whether on the couch, on his bed, or even laying out on the floor (they did that sometimes), that Kurt felt the best. When he was kissing Blaine, and cuddling with him, he was able to force himself to stop focusing on whether or not there would be a missed call when he went to check his phone, or if someone had slipped a letter into the mailbox and Finn was going to find it before him. No, when he was with Blaine, all he thought about was stubble face, shallow, aroused breathing, mint-coffee tastes, and eyes he couldn't describe. He always loathed the time that his boyfriend would check his watch, groan, and tell him with a pout in his lip that he had to start his commute back home.

But it always came, and this day was no different. After a good long while, and two sore tongues, and four red lips later, Blaine glanced up at the clock on the wall, and then buried his face into Kurt's chest, moaning, "Fuuuuck, I have to go."

As had become habitual at this point, Kurt got up, tugged his shirt down (he couldn't believe he let his boyfriend mess up his clothes the way he did – he was just _that_ handsome), ran a hair through his total sex-hair, and automatically went into the kitchen to fill up the thermos, which Blaine had brought back when he had come over that day, up with lukewarm coffee. Blaine took it with a glint of amusement in his eye, and Kurt walked him to the door.

"I'll talk to you when you get back home," Kurt said, accepting Blaine's goodbye kiss.

"See ya, babe," Blaine said, with a nice wave of the hand. He jogged his way to his car in order to get there quicker, so he could turn it on and crank up the AC. 'You wouldn't be so hot if you just wore short sleeves,' Kurt thought to himself, shaking his head, annoyed that, despite his disapproval, his boyfriend still donned long sleeves every day.

The house suddenly felt remarkably large and quiet. Although everyone went out and about quite often, it was rare that they did it all at once. Kurt almost never had the house to himself, and honestly, he wasn't sure if he liked it. He was an extravert, and while he could appreciate solitude, he much preferred hearing other people moving around, just so he knew he wasn't alone. That had been one major plus to Carole and Finn moving in – more people.

But now he was alone. He didn't feel like reading, because it was too quiet, and composing seemed like too much work, so instead, he went to his bedroom and flipped on the television, thankful for the noise. He clicked through the channels mindlessly, before landing on Food Network and watching, only half-interested, as Rachel Ray talked at him about her EVOO.

At some point, Kurt started to doze. He hadn't even realized he was tired until he found he was blinking himself awake, and it was suddenly dark outside. He checked the time. It was about 9:50. Carol and Burt had gone on a dinner and a movie date, and weren't expected back until midnight or so, and Finn was spending the night with the Glee Club guys (Kurt had been invited, but had politely declined, honestly surprised they had even asked him).

Kurt grabbed his phone off the cushion of old t-shirts of Finn's he had made for it, so it wouldn't make noise when it vibrated, and checked to see if Blaine had called. He hadn't and, thankfully, neither had anyone else. So far that day, he had received no threats, no letters, no calls – a new record for the past couple of weeks.

Not really wanting to move, but not wanting to risk falling asleep completely without doing his moisturizing treatments, he made himself get out of bed, and shuffle into the bathroom. A bit later, face smooth and all pours clog-free, he went back into his bedroom and began to put on his silk pajamas, when he was suddenly distracted by a loud crashing sound from behind him.

He turned quickly to see glass splayed out on the ground in front of the window pane, and his shades knocked crooked. He hurried over to the shattered window and peered out of it, just in time to see a beat up, old, grey Chevy Cavalier screech down the street, tires squealing, while a voice he didn't recognize screamed out "FAGGOT!" He might have heard laughter.

The automatic pump in his stomach began to pour adrenaline into his bloodstream by the bucketful. Breathing a little ragged, he inspected the scene, careful not to step on any class shards with his bare feet. A few inches from the window, he found a big brick, an envelope addressed in the familiar way ("KURT" in blood red), tied tightly around it.

There was no mistaking whose doing this was. Even if he hadn't known before now, who else other than athletic football players would have been able to chuck a brick all the way up to a second floor window, and _make the target_.

Kurt was shaking now. The adrenaline in his veins was getting worse, and it was more than he was used to. He was used to getting nervous, to getting uncomfortable and a little restless, but this? This was starting to scare him, the way his body was reacting.

He was starting to feel like he didn't have any control. The adrenaline just pumped more and more and more, until he was certain he may die of an overdose. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. His mind was going a thousand miles a second as he tried hard to take in breaths, but felt like his airway was constricted.

What was happening to him?

"Ignorance, ignorance, ignorance," he chanted to himself in his usual mantra, but it didn't do a damn thing.

He could feel the thick, humid air coming in from the window that lay in pieces on his floor, and it made him feel nauseous as he was already feeling unnaturally hot, every part of his body starting to feel like sweat was coming out of it. He felt like doubling over, curling in a fetal position and screaming, while simultaneously wanting to go outside and run laps around his house until his legs broke.

He was out of control.

This was taking him completely off guard. He was fumbling with the brick in his hand, trying to tear the envelope off without ripping it, and he nearly dropped the whole thing on his bare toe. He forced himself to sit, and couldn't help but to bounce his legs up and down as he could not, for the life of him, get them to stay still.

He had heard of panic attacks before, in psych class or something, but had never experienced one. He had just figured they were just things people got when they realized they missed a bargain sale, or went shopping in New York City and realized they didn't have any money to buy anything. He didn't think it was anything real, or as uncontrollable as his teacher had tried to explain, but now, as he sat holding the letter in his shaking hands, trying to regain some sort of composure, but not being able to think of anything but, "I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick," over and over, he knew that it was very, very real.

'I have to open this,' he thought to himself, determinedly, not really sure why he was so bent on reading what this letter said, but not really thinking rationally at all anyway. He managed to find the handle on his dresser drawer, and he pulled out his letter opener.

Opening the envelope nicely was an impossible task. His hands were shaking so badly, slipping the end of the opener into the flap of the envelope was unimaginably hard. He tried and tried, but kept messing up, ripping the envelope more and more as he did so. In a final attempt to get it right, his hand slipped, and he accidentally jabbed his other arm hard with the sharp end of the opener.

He gasped in pain at first, and then, for a split second, felt some of his panic symptoms subside. They came back almost instantaneously, but the relief had been there. He had felt it. He knew.

In any coherent state of mind, Kurt would have put the opener down, stepped back from the situation, and breathed even. But he wasn't in any coherent state of mind. Instead, he gripped the opener tight in his hand, and, without any hesitation, drove it into the palm of his other hand, hard.

It hurt. It hurt badly, the sensitive skin of his palm aching at the pointed jab of the office tool. Kurt pulled the opener away, and a tiny spot of blood appeared, looking like a paper cut wound, or that thing the doctor did when she would prick fingers. It was just a dab, but to Kurt it felt like tension and nervousness was leaking out of the hole, like he was an overinflated balloon, and the tiny, little wound was letting out some of the pressure.

He remembered how he had felt when he had had the little bit of anxiety in the shower – how it had went away when he had watched that line of blood fall down from his leg and drain with the water. He wanted to feel that again. He needed that relief. This attack had come on so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and he had no idea how to deal.

The letter opener was too dull, though. It could break through skin, but only in small points. What Kurt needed, or, at least in this state of mind, _thought_ he needed, was a cut like what the razor had done. A line of torn apart skin – an opening big enough to let all the air out of the balloon.

Barely even conscious of what he was doing, Kurt went back to the mess on the floor beside the window, and picked up a jagged piece of glass off his carpet. He held it up to his face, the dull light of his bedside lamp catching in the reflective surface. Somewhere inside anxiety-ridden Kurt, rational Kurt was screaming, 'you are not going to do what I think you're going to do, right?', but rational Kurt was too quiet to be heard right now.

His arm was too conspicuous, he couldn't do it there. His leg would bother him too much – that razor cut with those tight pants had been hell for several days. He regarded himself, looking down, wondering where he would do it.

He was shirtless. He had never finished putting his pajamas on. His milky-white skin, smooth as butter, glistened up at him as he gave a once over of himself. There. He would do it there.

He closed his eyes, took a shaking hand holding the glass, and put the sharp part of it against his skin, below his belly button, a little to the left. The glass felt cool against him, and he could feel the tiniest of pricks from the minor contact he had from it.

Rational Kurt was still screaming, but anxiety-ridden Kurt refused to hear.

Pressing in and dragging along previously flawless flesh, Kurt opened his eyes and looked down to watch as his skin was cut in a wavy, long line. He gasped out in pain, it stinging worse than he had planned, but at the same time, he reveled in it, loving having a new feeling to focus on rather than the adrenaline-induced restlessness.

The cut acted like a cat scratch. For just a few moments, it looked like nothing but a thin line across his stomach, but then, small beads of red began to bubble out of it, and soon, blood was dribbling down and running into his beltline, where his silk pajama bottoms absorbed some of it, leaving dark stains of red along the rim.

For who knows how long, Kurt stood there, glass still posed, eyes still watching as his own blood escaped from his body, caused by his own hand.

Eventually, enough of the nervous-tension had been lost through the self-made incision, and he began to gain back enough sense to know that he needed to clean himself, and the shattered window, up the best he could.

He cleaned and bandaged his stomach, swept and vacuumed his room, taped a big piece of cardboard over the gaping window, shoved the forgotten, unread envelope into his dresser drawer, suddenly not caring about it anymore, and then nearly collapsed onto his bed, all of it done almost robotically. He grabbed at his phone and saw he had a missed call from Blaine, and then a text from him that must of came afterward, which said, "_You're probably asleep. I'm home. I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. ~Blaine."_

Kurt, feeling like he had suddenly just come off a serious caffeine high, didn't even bother to reply. He put his phone on the table, and drew his knees to his chest, ignoring the ache in his stomach where the movement aggravated his cut. For a while, he lay there, contemplating the implications of everything that had just happened.

Rational Kurt made a bigger appearance, and he realized just what he had done. 'Just a onetime thing,' he assured himself, telling him he was out of his mind at the time, and he would just have to be careful about controlling anxiety.

But even as he thought it – as he tried to fall asleep so he wouldn't _have_ to think about it – he knew this had suddenly all just gotten a lot more serious than he had ever thought possible. But it would be okay, or so he reassured himself. He could handle it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes:**

**My beautiful readers,**

**My sincerest apologizes for not updating for a few days. My interwebz exploded. Or rather, my computer got a virus, and I had no access to my interwebz. Regardless, here is chapter five of "Handling It". I am going to warn you now that there are some gritty, gross parts to it, namely in terms of description - I got a little overzealous with my adjectives. (I regret nothing - namely because I'm a terrible person. :D ) I hope you aren't too grossed out. As always, reviews make me giddy like Kurt after Blaine says something like, "You move me.", so go comment if you want to make me the happiest gal in the whole wide world! :D**

***Ahem* Yeah, I'll shut up now. Enjoy chapter 5, and I'll try to have chapter 6 to you in a relatively timely manner. **

Chapter 5

The window had been hard to explain to his father. He had spent his whole morning the next day trying to think of an explanation, silently cursing the fact that Burt had the day off and would surely see the damage way sooner than Kurt would have liked.

That was exactly the way of it. By eleven o'clock, when Kurt still hadn't come down from his room, Burt had barged in, spouting something about not wanting him to "miss the whole damn day". Unfortunately, he noticed the big piece of cardboard where the window was supposed to be, right off the bat.

"What the Hell happened?" he asked his son, going over to inspect the damage.

"Um…" Kurt faltered. He still hadn't worked out the perfect excuse. Ultimately, pressed to answer by Burt's puzzled and slightly angered stare, he decided on a somewhat accurate explanation. Somewhat.

"Some kids driving through the neighborhood," he said. "They threw a brick through it. I'm pretty sure they were just messing around. Maybe they were drunk. I dunno."

Burt looked furious.

"You mean, someone drove through down our street and threw _bricks_ at your window?"

"Not _bricks_. _A_ brick. And they weren't aiming for _my_ window. They were just messing around and managed to hit mine."

"Helluva shot," Burt mumbled, glancing back toward the boarded up wreckage. Turning back to his son, he said, "Are you sure you don't know who did this? I mean, because if you did… What if you had been standing there? What if they had hurt you? Maybe I should call the police-"

"Dad, don't, it's not that big of a deal."

"Kurt, if someone is targeting you-"

"No one was targeting me. It was just a lucky shot. Maybe they were daring one another to see who could throw it the farthest of something." He shrugged in what he hoped was a believable look of uncertainty. Burt stilled looked unconvinced.

"I dunno, Kurt, it seems awfully shifty to me."

"Dad I… I saw their faces. Before they drove away. I saw them. They were no one I knew. No one I recognized." This particular statement grated on Kurt's insides, because the lie was so _blatant_. He knew exactly who was behind all this, but like Hell if he was going to tell his Dad that, even if he felt nauseous from being so dishonest.

"Hmph," Burt harrumphed. He shook his head, mumbled, "Well, get up. It's actually not 200 degrees outside today, and you could use some fresh air." He glanced again at the window. "Well… maybe you've got a decent amount of that already. Regardless." He nodded his head, gave a significant look, and showed himself out of his son's room.

Kurt rolled to the edge of his bed, where he had been scribbling down potential musical numbers (in the midst of his near-obsessive worry about having to explain the window), and got to his feet. Bare-footed and still in silk pajamas, he padded off to the bathroom to take a shower.

It was here, feet feeling cold against the cool tile, the room soundless say for the occasional drip from the faucet and the rustle of Kurt's own body, did he have to address, for the first time since last night, the long, self-made gash in his abdomen.

When he had woken up, he had managed to ignore the dull ache in his skin, but now, as he lifted his shirt off up over his head, he had no choice but to acknowledge the taped on gauze he had placed on his stomach last night, sloppily, in a post-panic attack blur.

He couldn't shower with it on. Carefully and slowly, he peeled the tape back, cringing as the stick of it took with it tiny hairs and aggravated his cut. Pulling back the gauze, he revealed to himself a clotted, moist wound. Secretions from it strung together like a tether between skin and bandage. Remnants of blood stained the gauze and the skin around the cut itself. At the irritation, small droplets of it leaked out, fresh, while newly formed scabs prevented an outpour.

Kurt crinkled his nose in disgust, crumpling up the bandage into a ball and throwing it into the trash. He took a few Kleenexes and crumpled them up too, throwing them over top of the gauze, just as a precaution against anyone who may come into the bathroom and look into the bin. (Why anyone would feel the need to ruffle through the trash and then confront Kurt about the bloodied up bandage was beyond him, but he was feeling particularly ashamed and paranoid about the whole ordeal, and it didn't hurt to be careful.)

With the evidence hidden, Kurt then rifled through the medicine cabinet, until he came across an old, squeezed-up bottle of Neosporin. He coaxed a small dab of it out onto his index finger, and then, bracing himself in case the physical touch stung, rubbed it onto his cut until it glistened like it had been coated in oil.

The touch with the Neosporin didn't actually hurt. What _did_ hurt, however, was when Kurt finally stepped into the shower after turning the water up, hot and full. The water hit his abdomen, and like the razor cut on his leg had, his wound felt like a thousand needles started poking it at once. Kurt gasped a gasp which was inaudible over the sound of the shower head.

He continued like this, hurrying as fast he could to get clean, wincing considerably when a bit of soap accidentally made contact with his wound. Drying off afterward, and applying a fresh coat of Neosporin, Kurt was in mild agony. The sore, and, given by how much it throbbed, on the brink of infection cut in his milky, smooth skin was overtaking his thoughts. And as he found a new bandage – this time just a big Band-Aid brand one – to cover it up, he swore to himself that would never do something so stupid again.

Burt had been right. For the first time in weeks, it was actually a temperature humans could stand, and he all but threw Kurt out of the house when he came downstairs, showered and fully clothed (shirt looser than he normally would have worn to keep his bandage hidden).

"If I have to exercise, eat right, and be healthy, then so do you," he said, holding the door open wide.

"You had a heart attack. You literally have to do those things to survive. I, on the other hand, eat perfectly fine, and have a perfectly executed exercise regimen, so tell me again why I am being told to 'go out and play' like a five year old, when I would much rather be in my room working on my musical."

"Because I'm sick of watching you boys sit around the house all damn day. If I could figure out a way to get Finn out of bed before one o'clock I'd make him go outside too. Go write your musical in the park or something. Have Blaine come over and go for a nice romantic walk. I don't care. Just get out of the house while you can. Temperatures are supposed to be up again by tomorrow morning."

Groaning a triumphant groan, Kurt muttered a, "Fine!", went and grabbed his notebook and a couple of pens, and set out towards the nearest park. The sun was beating down on him, it was pretty humid, and there were mosquitoes everywhere. But it was under 80 degrees, and that was what mattered. Who ever thought 79 degrees could feel so good?

Once he was at the park, Kurt settled down on a bench, legs crossing naturally, as he used the back of his thigh as a backing for his notebook. After staring blankly at the page for several minutes, the change of scenery not helping his creative flow any, a thought crossed the back of his mind that made his heart flutter in momentary panic.

_His Dad was going to check the mail._

Kurt jumped up, startling a jogger who happened to be going by. He mumbled a, "sorry". He checked his watch. It was about 1:45. The mail didn't normally come until two or two thirty, so even if his bullies had put something in the box, there was a good chance Burt hadn't looked in it yet. It would be okay. He'd just sit on the front porch and write there instead, and then he'd have the first shot at the mail.

He was cutting it close, though. He'd have to set off for home, and set off there now, even though he had just gotten to the park. He could already feel mild anxiety building in the pit of his stomach, and he was not, repeat, _not_ going to go through what he went through the night before. Flipping his notebook shut, he stuffed his pens back into his pocket and took off in a less-than-attractive power walk towards his house, checking his watch every, what seemed to be, ninety seconds.

If you were just going on a stroll, the park was not all that far away from where Kurt lived, but if there was hurry involved? It seemed to be a hundred miles away. Internally, Kurt was scolding himself for not thinking of this sooner as the clock ticked closer and closer to two. Eventually, he came to a block a little ways away from where he lived. He knew there was a shortcut in this part of the neighborhood he could go through, if he wanted, and as he glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, it seemed the only viable option.

He had never taken the alleyway shortcut before, intuitively thinking it had some sort of bad karma to it. It was one of those eerie looking ones, with big, looming fences on either side. It was one of those alleys that seemed to have no clear ending to them, and looked as though nighttime never left, even when the sun was high overhead. But any nervousness Kurt felt over this alley was miniscule to the nervousness he was getting over the thought of his Dad getting the mail and seeing a suspicious looking envelope with his son's name printed on the front in red magic marker. He started down it, grumbling as gravel and dust dirtied up his shoes.

By the time he saw them it was too late to turn around. They had spotted him first.

Suddenly, he knew he should have trusted his intuition, but it was a worthless endeavor to believe in it now. It was off to the side, in what looked to be part of a parking lot of an old, abandoned shop, where he saw the old, beat up Chevy Caviler – the same one he had seen screech away on his street corner last night. And leaning up against this car were three, largely framed boys, all dressed in gym shorts and baggy t-shirts, each wearing their own pair of basketball shoes. They all had a beer in their hand, and two of them were holding lit cigarettes, while one of them had an unlit one placed behind his ear like he was saving it. Kurt recognized the middle boy as Azimio, and he knew the face of the one to his right was someone on the McKinley football team, but he couldn't put a name to him. The boy on his left was completely unfamiliar, but that didn't stop him from looking at Kurt like he, himself, was some sort of wild animal, and Kurt was fresh meat. Indeed, all three of their faces lit up in smug, excited smirks at the sight of the small boy, who felt every single one of his body functions go into hyper-drive, instantaneously upon seeing this scene.

"Well, well, well," Azimio's voice rang clear. Kurt was still a decent distance away, and he considered running, but he knew that they could easily outrun him, and besides, his legs felt rooted in the spot where he was standing. He gulped, audibly, as all three of them approached him, slowly and menacingly. It was like something out of a movie, only, due to the wild thumping going on in his chest, and the incoherency of his thoughts as they rushed by in his head unhelpfully, Kurt knew that this was very, very real. "Look what we have here."

Once they got close to him, they circled him like a pack of wolves ganging up on their prey. Kurt kept turning around, trying to keep an eye on all three of them at once, but it proving difficult. They laughed at his futile efforts, while the other boy from his school said,

"Fancy meeting you here." He sounded genuinely surprised, and happily so. They hadn't expected him to come down this way. "Did you like our little gift last night, Hummel?" Kurt chose not to respond. He then gasped very loudly as the boy he didn't recognize put both his hands on the small boy's shoulders and squeezed tightly.

"You really should be more careful about where you wander off to," he whispered into his ear. Kurt felt a shiver go from his toes, all the way up to the hair on the top of his head, but the boy didn't let go. Instead, the boy from his school slid the backside of his hand down Kurt's cheek, "tsking" his tongue when Kurt turned his head away from his touch.

"What's a matter, Hummel? I thought you were into this sort of thing."

"Yeah," Azimio piped up, placing a hand on Kurt's waist. Kurt was in such an overwhelming panic at this point, all of his reflexes were frozen. He just stared in horror into Azimio's eyes as he continued. "Don't faggots like boys touching them? Isn't this just," he rubbed his hand slowly down Kurt's waist, until he reached his thigh. "What you like?"

"Please let me go. I have to go home. I have to…" he trailed off, words failing him, his own voice cracking as he tried to ignore the displeasure of their touches. He almost would have preferred it if they were hitting him instead. He couldn't stand this intimate contact with people he knew were just antagonizing him – trying to get him to break. And although he was trying very hard not to show it, he was, indeed, breaking.

"Aw, is Daddy gonna be worried about his little girl," the nameless football player taunted, pinching Kurt's cheek with his index finger and thumb, and sticking his lower lip out, mockingly.

The other two boys laughed. Azimio took his hand off of Kurt's thigh, and instead, placed it on his chest. He felt Kurt's heart beating fast beneath his palm, and it made him smile. "You nervous, Hummel?" he whispered, leaning in close. When Kurt didn't answer, he continued. "You should be. Be very nervous. You turned Karofsky into a faggot like you, and we're not ever going to forget that, you hear? We don't forget, and we don't forgive. You had better watch your back, Hummel, because like we said in our letter – it only gets worse from here." He stepped back, and nodded toward the other two, who stopped touching Kurt, and stepped away as well. "Consider this a warning," Azimio told him with a stern look. "We don't want to run into you again… or rather, you don't want to run into _us_ again, you understand?" Kurt stared at him blankly. "I said, _do you understand_? Don't be rude. Answer me when I'm talking to you." Shakily, Kurt nodded his head.

From behind him, the person he didn't know gave a hard shove into his back, making him topple forward, hands making painful contact with the gravel below as he fell to the ground. His grip on his notebook was lost, and it was sent flying away from where he lay. They all looked down at him and laughed, before turning to head back to their car. Over his shoulder, Azimio called out, "And Hummel, if you tell anyone about this?" He took his index finger and gestured it in a line across his neck. Kurt got the message.

He picked himself up off the dirt covered ground, ignoring the scrapes in either hand, and the tiny pebbles lodged in his skin, as he turned on his heel and took off in a run, and didn't stop until he was at his front door.

Sweaty, out of breath, dirty, tired, and terrified, Kurt plopped himself down on his front steps and tried to regain his composure. He thought for sure his heart was going to fly out of his chest at any given moment, and trying to breathe deeply to calm himself down was proving near impossible. In any rational state, he would try to dust himself off and look halfway presentable. But rationality was not a strong point right that second, so instead, the only thing he thought to himself was, "_The mail!_", as his eyes immediately flew to his watch, which read 2:17.

Frantically, and surely looking like a madman, Kurt jumped to his feet, and pulled the mailbox, which hung, bolted to the wall next to the front door, open, relieved to see a small handful of letters inside of it. He grabbed them and rifled through them. Not a single one was for him. He had worried over nothing.

"Kurt, what the Hell happened to you?" Burt's concerned voice rang out, startling his son, who jumped noticeably. He hadn't even heard the door open. His quick, sloppy movements must have caused enough commotion to render Burt curious, and now he was standing there, an eyebrow cocked, as he looked at Kurt, who was standing there, holding a pile of letters, coated in a layer of grit and gravel, looking like he had just run a marathon.

"Um," he said, part of him not sure of what to say, and part of him not sure how to make words. "Mail's here." He held the letters out to Burt, who took them, and then grimaced in disgust and concern.

"Why is there blood on them?" He held them out so his son could see. Sure enough, a small amount of smudged red coated the edges of the outermost envelopes. Kurt quickly checked his hands – which he had completely forgotten about injuring – and saw smeared blood on his palms. He shrugged sheepishly up at his father.

"Sorry."

"What the Hell happened?"

"I tripped and fell," Kurt said lamely.

"Where's your notebook?"

"Uh…" He had left it in the alley – no way was he going back for it. He just shrugged again, making Burt look even more concerned. He was trying very hard not to let his father see that he was currently in a state of upmost panic, and it was proving difficult.

"Kurt…" Burt started.

"I'm fine, Dad," his son said quickly. "Really. I just… I was crossing the street, and there was a car coming that I didn't see, and it almost hit me, and I tripped over the curb trying to get away from it. It just shook me up a little, and the fall scraped my hands. I'll be fine." He forced a smile and hoped his story was believable enough to satisfy his father. Burt regarded his son for a moment, before saying,

"Well… alright. Just… be more careful, okay?"

"Of course."

"Go clean yourself up. Maybe you shouldn't be outside. It's like you forgot how it works. I finally got Finn to go out, and you know what the first thing he said to me was? 'Why is the sun so bright? Has it always been that way?' I mean, honestly."

Kurt laughed nervously, and then went around his father, into the house, where he bolted up the stairs and barricaded himself in the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He turned on the faucet and put his hands underneath the water flow. The dirt came off his hands, along with a faint line of red.

Still in panic-attack mode, he pulled his hands out from under the tap curiously, not bothering to turn it off, and stared at the scrapes on either palm. They were different than the razor cut, or the cut he had made with the glass. They weren't bleeding in a straight line. Some places were cut deeper than others, and his skin was torn up in strange patterns. Almost unconsciously, he used his right hand to start picking at his left, causing a searing pain to radiate to every fingertip. It felt good – soothing.

His eyes welled up a little, out of anxiety, fear, and pain. He blinked back the tears, however, and instead, dug even deeper into the wounds on his left hand with his stubbly nails on his right. He was scratching at the cuts, like they itched. He did the same thing on the other hand, and soon, blood dribbled down both palms, running down his wrists and getting trapped in the crevice of his elbows. He held up his arms in a bent shape in front of his eyes so he could see the damage he had done. He ached, and he reveled in it, letting the pain put his heartbeat back into proper rhythm, put his breathing back into the proper depths, put his thoughts into working order.

It wasn't until he was sure the worst of his attack had passed did he dare put his hands back under the still-running faucet. He wiped all the blood off his forearms, and after he dried himself off, he applied Neosporin to each hand, just a precaution. He found some gauze and wrapped it around both of his hands, tapping them tight, glad that his father had seen the wounds beforehand, so he wouldn't have to explain it, and when Carole or Finn or Blaine asked him what had happened, he could tell them, "I fell" without feeling too guilty – after all, that was the truth, wasn't it?

He mindlessly made his way into his room, and collapsed onto his bed, brutally aware of the dull pangs in his palms, the feel of his stomach bandage rubbing against his shirt, and the cardboard covering up his window, but ignoring all of it.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, relieved to see he had no missed calls, and only one missed text, and it was from Blaine.

"_Am I still coming over for dinner tonight?"_ it read. Kurt didn't exactly feel up to socializing, but he couldn't exactly say no.

"_Yep. : )"_ he responded, finding it hard to add the smiley face when he did not feel that way at all. If anything, he felt sick, and annoyed at how texting made his hand wounds even more evident. He was too tired to feel ashamed about what had just happened in the bathroom, though. Instead, he situated himself on his pillow, completely crashed from the entire ordeal, and basically passed out, and not waking until he heard his Dad calling up to him, several hours later,

"Kurt, Blaine's here!"

And he had to put on a happy face, and go greet him at the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Notes:**

**Wonderfully perfect reader,**

**Hello there. This chapter isn't my favorite, but it's not dreadful. Maybe you'll like it. Who knows? It's important, though, I'd say, and fairly gory. And don't worry, other people will get involved soon, but I'm trying to make it as realisitic as possible, and I think cutters are probably pretty good at hiding it, at least for a little while. That said, things will get tense because people will find out. I promise. I've got this shit organized, dawgs. Also - everything in here about the Google searching? Totally true. I Googled it all myself. You can even find the article I quoted if you do what Kurt does. Hell yeah. And how hilarious would it be if Kurt had a tumblr? Inorite? I am really, really tired and disoriented, so Imma just give you the chapter to read. And as always, reviews are like tangible happiness, and whenever you give me one, it adds to my collection of good emotions, so you should totes do it. :D**

***Ahem* Enjoy!**

Chapter 6

Of course Blaine noticed the gauze wrapped around his boyfriend's hands immediately, but thankfully Kurt had been expecting that. After reassuring him that, yes, "I just fell down – no big deal," Blaine's inquiries stopped, and Kurt was able to keep all the details of his fall secret, and the modifications to his own scrapes hidden. He was surprised at how composed he felt as ranted to his boyfriend again about his long sleeves. He seemed totally normal when he complimented his father on making an edible meal by himself when they were all seated around the dinner table. He was most proud of not warranting any suspicion from his family, even as he picked at his pasta, and tore his garlic bread into pieces to make it look like he had been eating it. Because, in truth, his stomach was in knots. Like the last time, the trip down from the adrenaline high had left him feeling ashamed and worried at his own reactions to the anxiety. For the second time, he had truly lost all control, and that scared him, but he wasn't about to risk mentioning his panic attacks to anyone, for fear of what that discussion might lead to.

He could handle it. Or so he told himself.

"What happened to your window?" Blaine asked when the two boys had headed up to Kurt's room after all the dishes from dinner had been cleared away and put in the sink.

"Uh… just some kids messing around, driving through the neighborhood. They through a brick through it. No big deal. It's not that hard to fix."

Blaine cocked an eyebrow, as if to say, 'that seems like a big deal to me', but he was put off by Kurt's nonchalant attitude, and didn't say anything other than, "Huh. Did you see who they were?"

"Yeah. Didn't recognize them." Kurt felt the familiar tug of guilt, as he made that bold lie yet again. Why did trying to keep the people he cared about, safe and unconcerned require so much dishonesty? He pushed the feeling down and reminded himself it was for the best, as he cracked the door open the slightest amount to obey his Dad's, "boyfriend over = door open" rule, and plopped on his bed, Blaine following in suit.

"How's your musical coming along?" his boyfriend asked with a smug look that said, 'I still think you're insane for writing that, by the way'. Kurt wasn't sure how to answer, thinking about his notebook, which was probably still lying in the dirt of the alleyway – untouched and irretrievable, containing all his notes and brainstorms.

"Fine," he lied, smiling sweetly at Blaine. "I've got a lot of good ideas." 'That I don't remember because they're all written down in my notebook,' he thought to himself.

"You're insane."

"You love me for it."

Laughing, Blaine put an arm around Kurt's waist and said, "Yeah. Yeah I do."

Kurt let himself become immersed in the coffee-mint-mouth flavor of Blaine full-heartedly, as his boyfriend reached over and pressed his lips to his in a passionate lock. Kurt was surprised that even after months of dating, his heart still fluttered when they kissed deeply like this. He appreciated the irregularity of his heartbeat now especially, as it was a very different kind of restlessness in his chest than the kind he got with the panic attacks. Kissing Blaine reminded Kurt that his body could release adrenaline in good ways, too.

Somehow, the boys found themselves horizontal, lying with Blaine stacked on top of Kurt on the cushion of the mattress, comforter and sheets getting tangled and twisted beneath them. Kurt was hardly aware of his surroundings, his thoughts consisting of 'he tastes so good' and 'how does he do that with his tongue', and then blushing a deeper red the more aroused he got. He was so entranced by their physical touch, that he was caught unaware as Blaine used his hand to slip underneath Kurt's shirt and explore the skin on his back, like they had done before.

It was fascinating how quickly good adrenaline could turn to bad.

Kurt's mind, flying to the bandaged gash on his stomach, caused his entire body to tense, and as hot as he was just a moment ago, he was equally cold now. He pushed Blaine's shoulders away from him to break the kiss, and was relieved when the other boy removed his hand from his bare skin and opened his eyes to look down at him quizzically.

"What's wrong?"

Kurt forced a grin, and said, with as much charm as he could muster, "Nothing at all. I just don't want to get too into it when my family could come up at any time."

"That's never stopped us before," Blaine pointed out, sticking his lower lip out in a mock pout.

"Yeah, and we've had some pretty close calls." That, at least, was true. The number of times Finn or Burt had come creaking up the stairs and the boys had to quickly pull apart and adjust their shirts and fix their hair in a mad rush was numerous, and Kurt was pretty sure Carole had actually seen them in the act once or twice, but was too nice to say anything. Thankfully, what Kurt was saying made at least a little bit of sense – he was getting pretty good at thinking up excuses on his feet.

Deflated, Blaine sighed dramatically and sat up, holding a hand out to Kurt, who tried not to flinch when his cut up hand gripped the other boy's, as Blaine pulled him up into a sitting position as well.

"No fair," he said in a singsong voice, reaching over to snag one quick peck from Kurt, who chuckled, but internally was breathing a gigantic sigh of relief, not wanting to have to think of another lie to explain why he had a scabby, gross looking cut adorning his stomach. He had been plenty dishonest for the night.

Perfectly content to just sit and be in each other's presence, the two of them popped in _Sound of Music _and watched until Blaine glanced at Kurt's alarm clock and said, "Oh crap, it's late. I have to go."

Thermos in hand, and one long goodbye kiss later, Kurt waved goodbye. Once Blaine was gone, he became acutely aware just how exhausted he was. He slipped on his pajamas and made the mistake of sitting on his bed to watch the rest of his movie until Blaine called to let him know he made it home. (He saw he had one missed call and a one new voicemail on his phone from an unknown number, which deterred him from feeling anything but instantly miserable and beat.) Within just a minute or two, he had passed out into a deep slumber, without doing a single facial treatment, without hearing back from Blaine, the light of the television flickering on his face until he woke up the next morning.

The chirp of birds out on the tree next to his shattered window was what finally roused him from his death-like sleep. The inside of his mouth felt like it was coated in some sort of sticky, gross glaze, since he had fallen asleep without brushing his teeth. He fretted about not doing his face treatments, and was almost afraid to look in the mirror. The red, block numbers of his digital alarm clock showed the time "11:21", telling him he had slept through most of the morning. For someone who was usually up and about by seven, he was certainly finding himself having trouble getting out of bed until late.

He checked his phone, which he was sure was almost dead since he hadn't put it on his charger. Seven unread text messages showed up on his screen, and he groaned to the empty room. He decided to just go through them all, knowing that if he didn't, the irritating mailbox symbol in the corner of his phone would drive him nuts.

He looked at the one from Blaine first, just to be certain he was alright. His, 'not dead, sleep well' text was confirmation that he was, in fact, just fine. Looking through the list of unread text messages, he saw that there were three different numbers, with two messages from each. He read all six of them, but really, reading just one would have been sufficient, since they all said the exact same thing – a repetition of the word, "FAGGOT" over and over again, filling up six times the 160 character limit of a text.

"Good morning to you too," Kurt mumbled, reaching over to plug his phone in. He was getting pretty sick of waking up to things like this.

Kurt stumbled out of bed, brushed his teeth lazily (but extra long) in the bathroom, and then found himself, still in pajamas, downstairs. Both Carole and Burt were at work, and Finn was either still asleep in his room or out with Rachel. He went into the kitchen and looked at the fridge where Finn had put his girlfriend's "What We Are Doing This Summer" list, and saw that he was, in theory at least, out at beginner's ballet class – yet another attempt to get Finn to dance, even though everyone else had long since given up, thinking it a worthless cause.

Blaine had an extra long shift at the Gap that day, and so he wasn't even going to hear from him until he got off, say for maybe a text or two during his lunch break. Mercedes was gone with her family on vacation to Florida, he didn't particularly feel like being a third wheel to the inseparable Tina/Mike pair, and he didn't really hang out with the other Glee club members unless it was a group thing. Therfore, Kurt had nothing to do that day.

Trying not to think of what had happened the other day when he had been left alone, he instead tried to think of this as a positive thing. He could try and put accompaniment to some of the few songs for his musical he had typed up from his notebook, but he shot that down, realizing that thinking about his musical just reminded him of the alley the day before. He could watch a movie, but nothing really struck his fancy – he generally saved the musicals to watch with Blaine, and romantic comedies were best shared with Mercedes, and everything else just didn't seem particularly enthralling. He could read, but read what? And going for a walk was so out of the question for more than one reason…

So what to do?

Kurt, although mature, unique, and not your average teenager in so many ways, still fell back on the most typical, teenage boredom cure when there was nothing else to occupy his time. Grabbing his laptop and taking it downstairs to the living room couch, he flipped it open, and opened a web browser, typing in "facebook" in the url address bar out of habit, rather than purpose.

After he had exhausted Facebook, all of his Pippa Middleton favorites, tumblr, fml, and even lolcats, he found himself staring at a plain Google page, not knowing what else to look up. It was one of those days where even internet seemed dull.

Whether out boredom, deep rooted curiosity, subconscious worry, or maybe even a little of all three, Kurt found himself typing the word "cutting" into the search engine, and hitting the enter button. 482,000,000 results popped up. _482,000,000_. It seemed like too many. He scrolled down, looking at the links, which were things like, the "Self-Injury Wikipedia Page" and "Self-Injury/Cutting – ". Feeling a little overwhelmed, and not really ready to admit to himself why he was looking this up in the first place, Kurt simply clicked on the first result (appropriately labeled: "Cutting"), just to see what it said.

"Emma's mom first noticed the cuts when Emma was doing the dishes one night. Emma told her mom that their cat had scratched her. Her mom seemed surprised that the cat had been so rough, but she didn't think much more about it.

Emma's friends had noticed something strange as well. Even when the weather was hot, Emma wore long-sleeved shirts. She had become secretive, too, like something was bothering her. But Emma couldn't seem to find the words to tell her mom or her friends that the marks on her arms were from something that she had done. She was cutting herself with a razor when she felt sad or upset."

Kurt read through the first two paragraphs and felt like he was being talked down to like he was a kid. Part of him thought he should laugh at the childish voice the article was written in, while another part of him felt sick. He skimmed through the rest of it (five pages worth), not really sure what he was supposed to be taking from it. He read about why people cut, how they start, and how addicting it can become, but in true, "I don't have a problem!" fashion, Kurt eventually clicked out of the page, thinking to himself, "I'm not a cutter. I've only done it twice."

He checked the clock. It was nearly three, and he hadn't bothered to get the mail yet. Unenthusiastically, he sat his laptop on the coffee table and went to the mailbox and gathered up the small collection of mail inside of it, as per usual. He shuffled through it, and because his day hadn't been bad enough, he found a letter addressed to him in the usual fashion.

"Fantasic," he muttered to no one. Casting the other envelopes aside on the table where his laptop was, he ripped open his with little care, unfolding the paper inside of it. It was very much like the texts he had received that morning.

An entire lined piece of paper worth of the word "FAGGOT" written in blood red ink.

He couldn't deny their persistence.

Sighing, he took the letter upstairs, prepared to stow it away with the others in his bedside drawer, but when he entered his room he was distracted by the ring of his telephone – it went off of vibrate automatically when it was on the charger. He went over to it, looked at it, and saw he had 9 missed text messages, and 2 unheard voicemails. He was pretty sure he knew what they contained.

Sure enough, every text read like the ones that morning had. "FAGGOT" typed so many times it started to look like a string of symbols put together rather than an actual word. In a sickly Sesame Street-esque fashion, Kurt thought to himself, "this day brought to you by the word 'faggot'", as he dropped his phone with little care, barely even noticing the loud clunk it made when it hit the ground.

He wasn't anxious, but he was mad, and he was tired. He was mad and tired of all the hate that he couldn't do anything about. From down on the floor, his phone belted out a few notes to let him know another text had arrived, and he had just about had it.

"Fuck!" he cried, kicking the side of his bed hard with his foot, letting the word slip. He wasn't one to swear that harshly, usually finding it immature and barbaric, but he was feeling particularly barbaric at the moment, anger starting to fill him up to his very core.

Faggot, faggot, faggot – after all this time that was still his defining characteristic. It was still the thing that he was most hated for. It was his biggest burden, the thing that caused him the most misery – the one thing about himself he could never change.

"Some people cut because they feel desperate for relief from bad feelings. People who cut may not know better ways to get relief from emotional pain or pressure. Some people cut to express strong feelings of rage, sorrow, rejection, desperation, longing, or emptiness."

The information from the webpage he had browsed filled his head. Rage. He certainly felt rage right now. Maybe this is what Azimio and his gang wanted – to tear him up so completely on the inside that he became broken and scarred on the outside.

Fuck it. He was so sick of this. He was so sick of everything. He was sick of having to go out of his way to check the mail. He was sick of being afraid of phone calls. He was sick of adrenaline rushes making him feel nauseous – had he even eaten a full meal in one sitting in over a week?

So if this is what they wanted out of him, they could have it.

Fuming, mind as incoherent as if he was having a panic attack (and maybe this was some sort of form of that? he didn't know or care), Kurt marched back down the stairs, and went into the kitchen. He yanked open drawers, not thinking about which one he needed, until he happened upon one that held old steak knives they didn't use as frequently anymore. He rifled through them, trying to find the sharpest one, and when he did, he held it tight around the handle, and took it back upstairs with him.

Ripping his shirt off (he was _still_ in pajamas), he looked down at his skin. The bandage on his first gash was starting to come off a little, and he could see the edge of the scab through the loose part. He paid no never mind, instead, focusing on the area just above his belly button. Standing up straight in the middle of his room, Kurt took the knife and began slicing up his skin. A particular design in mind, Kurt used the weapon to make cuts of various depths and sizes, letting the pain melt away his anger. He took the old shirt of Finn's that he had been using to keep his phone on, to mop up the excess blood so he could see what he was doing.

It took nearly a half hour, after going back over the cuts a few times, the knife too dull to make it work perfectly the at first, but finally, he had made his art piece. The word, "FAGGOT" gleamed up at him, blood drizzling from it. He smeared off some more of it with the t-shirt, and dropped both it and the knife onto the floor.

He went into the bathroom, where he ripped off the bandage on his old cut without any sort of hesitation, causing some of the scab to come off and reveal a light pink sore underneath. He unwrapped the gauze on his hands, piling all of it up on the counter. He stared at himself in the mirror. His hand scabs were patterned funny. He held them, palms facing the reflection, and looked at all his injuries together at once.

The bleeding FAGGOT, upside down in the reflection, stared at him, and he grimaced back.

Is this what they had wanted? Because they gotten their wish. Branded, bleeding, and helpless, Kurt dropped his hands, took a few deep breaths, and went to clean up all of his mess before his family got home, letting his fresh wound bleed freely as he did so. He didn't even bother to think of the implications of his actions this time, considering it a worthless endeavor. Apathetic more than anxious, frustrated more than scared, he didn't care. If they were going to keep harassing him, and he was going to keep it a secret, he was going to have to find a way to deal with it.

And maybe this was the way he was suppose to handle it all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Fantabulously fantabulous reader,**

**Alas, the plot thickens! Sorry this took so long. I meant to have this done the other day, but work killed me, and then Fourth of July happened, and that's a big thing for my family, so I had ZERO time. But that's okay, because it's done now, much to my relief, because this chapter was annoying to write. Hopefully it won't be annoying to read, though! Like I said, that plot hath thickened. (But you hafta read to see what I mean. ;D ) I'll try and update soon. I'm working a couple other fics too, though, and working, and like, an actual novel that isn't fanfiction, too, so please bear with me if I am a little less than perfect at updating quickly. I promise I won't ever make you wait more than a few days for an update unless circumstances are super messed up. Fair enough? And, just fyi, every time you leave me a comment, and angel gets its wings. :)**

**Enjoy:**

Chapter 7

It was nearly two weeks later, and Kurt was with Blaine, Rachel, and Mercedes at the Lima mall, out on a hunt – per Kurt's insistence of course – for shorter sleeved shirts for Blaine.

"Do _not_ even think about it," Kurt scoffed as he watched his boyfriend eye longingly at a rack of clearance winter tops. "You know why those are on sale? Because it is a _million_ degrees outside, and _no one wants them_. Including you. Now come on." He grabbed Blaine by the elbow and dragged him along as the girls scouted ahead for shirts the diva would approve.

"How about this one?" Rachel asked, holding up a particularly foul looking button up with a design only Rachel could appreciate. Mercedes and Kurt exchanged a look, and the other girl took the garment from Rachel's hands, saying,

"Let Kurt and me handle this."

Sure enough, twenty minutes of rack-browsing later, Blaine was holding more shirts than was reasonable. With a strained, "Can I try these on now?" his face mashed up against fabric, he looked pleadingly toward his boyfriend for permission, who gave a small nod.

Outside of the fitting room, the three of them stood waiting for Blaine as he tried on his clothes. "It's really tight!" he called through the door.

"It's supposed to be!" Kurt called back, examining a cuticle with bored interest.

"You look really tired, Kurt," Mercedes observed now that they had time to talk. She cocked a concerned eyebrow.

"Yeah, and you barely even said a word when I told you about my call-back for Maria in the local production of West Side Story. I expected a little bit more enthusiasm."

"Oh I'm fine," Kurt said, waving a dismissive hand. "And Rachel, when you get a role in a play for a company that isn't run by bored housewives, I'll be more excited for you. Until then, it's just child's play."

"Ouch, Kurt," Blaine chuckled from behind them. They turned and looked at him as he wiggled around uncomfortably in shirt that clung to his chest the way Kurt's pants clung to his thighs. "This feels funny," he pouted.

"But it looks exceptional!" Kurt exclaimed, clasping his hands together. He grinned a silly grin at the other two, who laughed and nodded in agreement, which made Blaine groan.

"I was afraid you'd say that."

"Go try the other ones on! This has renewed my hope in your wardrobe! Go on!"

Head hung in defeat, Blaine went back into the fitting room to try on whatever other torture device his boyfriend had grabbed for him. Mercedes and Rachel began gossiping about some guy they had seen Quinn with the other day, their worry over Kurt already forgotten. Not that Kurt minded, of course – he was more than happy for their inquiries to be cut short. He didn't feel up to answering questions he knew he wouldn't be able to answer truthfully. Because truthfully? He was anything _but_ fine. Back at home, a new pile of torn open envelopes sat inside his bedside table drawer, next to the bloodied up t-shirt, and the crimson stained steak knife he never returned to the kitchen. A fresh batch of cuts chaffed against his shirt as he moved about the mall with his friends. No. He wasn't fine at all.

But they didn't need to know that. His friends didn't need to know how he had scolded himself relentlessly the morning after carving the hate word above his belly button. He didn't need them to know how, even though before, anxiety and depression had just been side-effects to all the hate, they were now pretty much just his default position. And more than anything, they didn't need to know how addicted he was getting to hurting himself – even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it outright. Maybe he did a little knife work whenever his telephone rang one too many times, or maybe it calmed him down to see blood drip down his sides whenever he read a particularly nasty letter, but that didn't mean he was a _cutter_ – because cutters weren't like him.

Cutters were the emo kids that Blaine used to hang around with. They were the ones who would go to that clearance rack Kurt had steered Blaine away from, and browse it with intent. They marked up their wrists with razors over things like bad breakups, and feelings of being misunderstood, and how on Earth could Kurt really relate to one of them?

No, see, he was just a kid whose family had spent way too much time worrying over him, and he didn't want to be a burden anymore. He was a bully victim who had found a unique way to solve the problems that went along with it – even though the increased adrenaline and heartbeat really didn't do anything but harm to his stomach and blood pressure. Cutters were sad-sacks, broken people, and attention-whores. Kurt was simply handling it, the best way he knew how. Or at least that was his justification every time the blade made contact with his skin.

So for now he was content to wave away worried comments, and utter "I'm fines", and just enjoy the company of his closest friends and his boyfriend in a rare instance of calm. So when Blaine came out and fake-model walked towards them with another constrictive shirt, Kurt merely laughed along with his friends, and demanded to see more.

Eventually, all the clothes had been tried on, and after a little bit of arguing ("Kurt, I swear, if you make me buy that I will never, ever wear it!"), Blaine had four nice short-sleeved shirts that they all could agree on. At the register, a cute college age guy rang them up, and made small talk with the other three, while Kurt checked his watch. It was getting late – the mall was going to close soon, and Blaine needed to start out on his commute back home.

After _insisting_ on buying him a coffee from the food court (since he didn't have a thermos handy), Kurt waved goodbye to Mercedes and Rachel, and walked with his boyfriend to their cars, where they were parked right next to each other. Blaine grabbed his waist and pulled him close and gave him a nice kiss on the mouth before murmuring in his ear, "I'll see you in a couple days, alright baby?"

"Mm," Kurt said, his eyes still closed, deeply inhaling in the comfort and safety of his boyfriend, hoping it would be enough to get him through until Blaine's work schedule allowed him to come visit again.

"Thanks for the shirts," Blaine said, pecking him on the cheek, before letting him go and going over to the driver's side of his car. "And the coffee," he added. He winked and waved as he pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Kurt leaning his back up against his car, watching as he left.

Once in his own car, Kurt noticed he was low on gas. He groaned to himself, not really feeling up to a gas station trip, but knowing that if he didn't he would get anxious over it, and would worry about his car stopping in the middle of the road or something. (He was starting to get nervous about the stupidest of things.) Sighing, he put on his seatbelt, grating his teeth as the belt pulled against his stomach, and put his car into drive, following the way Blaine had left a minute ago, and drove to the nearest gas station.

At the pump he rolled his eyes, irritated, as he looked at the sign that read "OUTSIDE CREDIT/DEBIT CARD PAYMENT OUT OF ORDER – MUST PAY INSIDE". He filled his tank up $20 worth, and, annoyed, went into the station, where there were two people in front of him – one who was holding a gigantic cup full of some sort of fountain drink, and the other who was arguing with the cashier about the few dollars he had won on a lotto scratch ticket. _Brilliant_.

Kurt crossed his arms in front of himself impatiently, and looked around. His eyes fell on a display of items next to the counter. It was a sort of "Household Items" display, with things like toenail clippers, tiny bottles of a type of shampoo that would never in a million years touch but a follicle on Kurt's head, and the like. But none of that interested Kurt. Instead, he was drawn to a package of 50 straight-edge razors, sitting next to things like nails and screws.

He turned his head away abruptly. What was he doing? Using a knife he found in his kitchen was one thing, but actually going out of his way to buy instruments to hurt himself with? That would be hard to justify. But even still he couldn't help but think how much easier it would if he had something like those at his disposal. The knife he had been using was already a bit blunt to begin with, and all the use he was getting out of it was starting to wear it down even faster.

He shook himself a little, trying not to think about it. He could use another knife, or sharpen the one he had, or Hell, even just stop using it all together. It wasn't like he couldn't just quit doing it if he had to. He just _chose_ not to.

But even still, Kurt's mind was suddenly preoccupied with those straight-edge razors, and how much more controlled they would be. How the closer grasp would make the lines so much nicer, and how he could be more exact with them.

He hardly even noticed the woman with the fountain drink walk away, and jumped a little when the cashier said, a little agitatedly, "Sir, can I help you?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." He stepped forward and dug through his wallet until he found his debit card. "Uh, I have gas on pump 3."

"$20 right?"

"Yeah."

"Anything else for you?"

He wished she hadn't asked. His bit his lip and tapped his foot a little nervously, before reaching over to the display and grabbing the package and placing it on the table. From in front of him he grabbed a package of spearmint gum, just so he didn't feel weird buying _just_ the razors.

"That should do it," he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. The cashier barely seemed to notice as she rang up the gum and razors and put them in a small plastic bag.

"26.09," she said in a bored voice. Kurt swiped his card, punched in his pin, accepted his purchase and receipt gratefully, and was out of the station in record time.

Heart pounding in his chest, he slid into his driver's seat, and took the package out of his bag and looked it over. He could see fifty tiny little razors lined up in perfect order through the transparent plastic. He gulped, tossed it to the passenger side, and started his car.

He had just taken impulse buying to a whole new level.

"_Oh_," Kurt breathed as Blaine's mouth all but ambushed his own. His boyfriend's hands wrapped around his shoulders and squeezed him tight as his tongue did things that made Kurt completely forget what they had been doing before. Had they been watching a movie? Practicing singing? Just talking? He couldn't remember, and really, he didn't care, because right now all he could focus on was that coffee-mint-mouth taste as Blaine pushed him forward gently, and pressed his body on top of his, until they were both horizontal on Kurt's bed. Blaine's arms, which were actually bare for once, as he was wearing one of the shirts he had bought at the mall, rubbed against Kurt's, and Kurt filed away the feeling of Blaine's muscular, a little hairy, but still smooth arm skin in his 'things to remember about Blaine' list.

A couple days had taken a lot longer than that, or at least that's how they had felt. Blaine had been miserable, ringing up items for customers and putting his charm at full-blast for eight hours both days, but it was nothing compared to what Kurt had gone through.

The morning after he had bought the razors (which, at that point, remained unopened in his bedside drawer, which was starting to become nothing more than a home for all his secrets), he had been woken up by a disgruntled Burt, who stood above his head saying something about Kurt's car.

"Huh?" Kurt said groggily, opening a tired eye to squint up at his father.

"Someone smashed in both of your door windows."

"What?" Kurt asked, sitting up slightly, rubbing his face, still not quite comprehending.

"The door windows on your car? Someone smashed them in. They're shattered and bent up."

Still half-asleep, Kurt allowed himself to be led by his father downstairs and outside, where his car, which he had parked on the street that night, was sitting with both side mirrors looking as though someone had come by and obliterated them with baseball bats.

"I can fix it, no problem, but I need you to tell me if you have any idea why someone would do this to your car," Burt had said, looking at his son with worry behind his gaze.

"I dunno, Dad," Kurt had responded with a yawn. "Probably just someone messing around."

"You're gonna tell me that both your room window and your car mirrors being demolished are just 'kids being kids'. Seems too coincidental to me."

"Do you _want_ there to be someone after me, Dad?" Kurt snapped, making Burt jump. "Sorry, but I don't know who did it. I guess I'm just an unintentional, unlucky target."

Not looking convinced, but having to get to work, Burt had no choice but to believe Kurt's lie. And it was a lie. Because there was no doubt in Kurt's mind that this wasn't an accident, and when he checked the mail later that day, his suspicions were confirmed.

"_LIKE OUR MODIFICATIONS ON YOUR CAR, HUMMEL? I PERSONALLY THINK IT'S AN IMPROVEMENT."_

Heartbeat elevated, face flushed, and with Finn downstairs playing video games, Kurt had decidedly taken his anger out on himself. His shaking hands had torn apart the plastic casing to his new razors messily, and he grabbed hold of one and held it out to look at, like it were a beacon. The blade was so thin and sharp, and the potential damage was overwhelming.

Kurt had actually gasped the first time blade met skin, the cut being much deeper and cleaner than he had expected. But after a few small markings, he became accustomed, and was calmed down quicker than he would have had he used the knife.

Cleaning up in the bathroom later, a new bottle of Neosporin in his hand, the realization hit him hard like a coming train that, somewhere, between hate mail and phone calls, and the accident in the shower, he had become a cutter, and yes, he was a _cutter_. Like the so-called 'emo' kids he had been so judgmental to before, he had become someone he used to make fun of. And the part that scared him the most was that he had no intentions of stopping.

So that's why now, with Blaine resting over top of him, his lips trailing off of Kurt's mouth, and beginning to explore his jaw line and neck, did Kurt take comfort in the security and chill atmosphere Blaine brought with him whenever he was around, because Kurt didn't feel as anxious when Blaine was there to protect him, and if he didn't feel anxious, he didn't feel the need to hurt himself.

But, like anything involving panic anxiety, things could quickly go from perfectly fine, to perfectly horrible, if the right trigger was set off.

Kurt's personal trigger was pulled as Blaine's hands, which were before supporting him on either side of Kurt's body, rested steadily in the mattress, moved to the bottom rim of Kurt's shirt, and tried to push it up.

Kurt all but threw Blaine off of him, causing Blaine to sit up quickly and nearly tumble out of his straddled position over Kurt and over the side of the bed. He caught himself just in time to prevent the fall, but he looked at Kurt with a confused face as the other boy sat up in a sitting position and drew his legs to his chest, cheeks reddening, both in nervousness and embarrassment.

"Kurt?"

"I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, you just… you just caught me off guard."

"Caught you off… Kurt, we've done this sort of thing before. It's not like I was overstepping a huge boundary or anything."

"Boundaries can change."

Blaine looked at Kurt with a look of bewilderment, his mouth slightly gaped, until he finally sighed, got himself out of his awkward half-about-to-fall-off-the-bed position, and got into a mirroring position of Kurt on the other end of the mattress.

"Look, Kurt, I respect you, and I know you want to take this thing slow, and that's _fine_, really it is, but…" he shook his head a furrowed his eyebrows, and Kurt felt guilty for making his boyfriend so conflicted. "You have to give me something, here. I can't keep guessing what's okay and what's not."

Kurt felt sick to his stomach (more so than usual), because, honestly, he wanted nothing more than to be able to touch Blaine, and have him touch him back – to memorize all the new sensations and tastes and smells that went along with skin exploration. But all of the Band Aid brand bandages and scars that littered his abdomen very distinctly told Kurt that this was not an option. He drew his knees in closer, in an unnecessary act of defense, as though Blaine was going to pounce at him and rip his shirt over his head. At his nervous action, his own body responded by pouring more adrenaline into his bloodstream, and as it began to pump through his veins, he began to become very restless and uncomfortable, and he knew only one thing would solve it.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," he squeaked, his voice even higher than usual, as he focused most of his energy on keeping his breath even. "I'm really not. I'm just… Maybe you should go."

Blaine blinked a few times. "What?"

Kurt's fingers ached for the feel of the metal of his razor as his body became more and more unbearable to be in. "I can't give you any more right now."

Blaine reached out to touch Kurt's arm, but Kurt involuntarily jerked away, touch being the last thing his over-stimulated body needed right that second. "Kurt, what's wrong. You look like you think I'm about to attack you."

"Nothing's wrong. I just hate making you wait for me like this, but there's… there's nothing I can do about it."

"Hey, it's fine. I mean that. Just give me some sort of idea of what I can and can't do so you don't send me flying over the side of the bed when I accidentally cross a line." Blaine grinned reassuringly at Kurt in an action Kurt couldn't bring himself to reciprocate.

"Maybe you should go," he repeated, clamping his eyes shut tight at the thought, not really wanting Blaine to leave, but not wanting his building anxiety to _stay_ even more.

Blaine stared into Kurt's face, waiting for Kurt to return the gaze, but when Kurt kept his eyes shut, and even tilted his head so his forehead was resting on his knees, Blaine gave up, still confused as to how things had gone from 'I'm so glad to see you' to 'please get out of my house' so quickly. "Okay," he told Kurt, as sweetly as he could. "Okay, if that's what you need right now, that's fine. I'll call you when I get home."

Kurt felt the bed shift as Blaine got off. He heard his door open and then close, and that was when he dared to lift up his head and open his eyes. He was completely alone. Distantly, he heard Blaine clamber down the stairs. He didn't even wait to hear him leave out the front door. Instead, he practically threw his bedside drawer open and rummaged around for the t-shirt rag and the razor he had been using.

He sat his utensils on top of the table, crossed his arms and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt with both hands. He peeled his shirt up over his head, and tossed it carelessly to the floor (not even caring if the designer material got wrinkled).

He picked up the razor and fiddled with it between his fingers as he eyed his stomach for a new place to make his mark. It was remarkable how quickly his perfect, smooth skin had become a bloody warzone of scars and mending cuts of various sizes and severity. He settled on an unmarked place just above his left hipbone, and the blade was nestled nicely against the skin, when suddenly his door flew open, and he heard,

"Hey, sorry, I'm on my way out, but did I leave my phone-" the voice broke off.

Kurt looked up instinctively, and his own horrified eyes met ones of equal horror as he stared into the face of his boyfriend. Blaine's eyes broke the lock they had with Kurt's, and instead, moved down slowly until they rested on the lattice work that was Kurt's abdomen. Kurt remained absolutely still, blade still pressed in just enough to prick at the nerves and send a small jolt through his body. He was unbearably aware of the piercing eyes of his boyfriend, but he couldn't remember how to turn away. Blaine looked suddenly pale, his jaw practically unhinged, as he brought his gaze back up.

"Oh Kurt," he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically small and weak. "What in the world have you done?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Notes:**

**Hey there, sexiest Goddamn readers on the whole damn planet!**

**Here's chapter 8, finally. It's a little shorter, but it's all dramatic and stuff, so you know. :D I hope you enjoy it. Also, if you are so inclined, and are feeling like something smutty and amusing when you're done rifling through all this angst, feel free to check out my other WIP story "Let's Talk About IT", because it's kind of funny, and I like to shamelessly advertise myself. :D Anyway, you should review me, because whenever you review me you save a kitten from starvation. *Disclaimer: That may not actually be true***

**Enjoy:**

Chapter 8

Kurt's body unfroze, and he accidentally dropped the razor, which clattered to the wood floor with an unnervingly loud clang. Kurt spun around so that his back was facing Blaine. He wrapped his arms around his torso, and cried, "Get out!" When there was no answer, he said it again, more forcibly. "_Get_. _Out_."

After a moment, the door to Kurt's room shut, but he had a feeling that Blaine was still standing there – he could still feel his presence – his gaze on the bare skin of his back. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard his boyfriend's footsteps creak against the floor, and then felt his rough, calloused hands on his bare shoulders, causing Kurt to jump. Blaine didn't move his hands, however, and instead, used them to turn Kurt around so they were face to face.

"You need to leave," Kurt whispered in a voice that was almost pleading, but Blaine just shook his head slowly. His eyes looked absolutely devastated as they stared into Kurt's, which probably conveyed nothing but complete and total fear, and Kurt felt guilt begin to make its way into his body, which was already near-convulsing with rising anxiety. The back of his own eyes began to sting with tears, and he felt sick that the only thing he wanted to do was pick that razor back up off the floor and use it to stifle them.

Blaine put a hand to Kurt's face briefly, gently, perhaps trying to reassure him – of what, who knew? – and then he bent down so that he was eye level with Kurt's handiwork. "_Oh my God_," he whispered, to himself, or maybe to no one. His fingertips lightly traced over the scars, and brushed cautiously over the fresher cuts. He let out a long, hollow exhale, before getting back to his feet, and turning away from Kurt, his hands over his face.

"Blaine, I…" Kurt began, but he didn't know how to finish his sentence. What could he say to make this better?

"How long?" Blaine asked suddenly, harshly, voice muffled, still facing the other way.

"Blaine…"

"_How long, Kurt_?"

"A couple months," Kurt admitted after a few beats of silence. "Since around the beginning of summer."

"_Why_?" The question came out so strained and heartbroken, that Kurt was actually taken aback. Blaine was always so composed, so sure, even when things around them were going to Hell. Blaine _never_ sounded as confused and constrained as he did in that moment, and it was all Kurt's fault. But what was he supposed to say? Was the reveal of this secret enough prompting for him to give up all his others? Should he show Blaine the letters piled up in his drawer? Should he tell him the truth about the window, and the phone calls? How could he, when he could barely remember how to make sentence?

"I've just been having… I've been having some anxiety issues." It wasn't a lie.

Without warning, Blaine dropped his hands and spun back around, and Kurt was horrified to see that there were traces of tears welling up in his boyfriend's eyes. _What had he done_? He couldn't dwell on it, though, because Blaine was talking at him, and talking fast.

"_Anxiety_ problems? What the _Hell_, Kurt? Anxiety from what? I didn't even know… Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me? This… this," he gestured broadly at Kurt's abdomen. "This isn't a solution. What in the world possessed you to think that it would be a good idea to cu-" his voice broke on the word. He couldn't bring himself to say it. His beautiful boyfriend – his little diva, with such enthusiasm, and self-confidence, who was quite possibly the love of his life, couldn't be hurt like this. If anything, because Blaine hadn't realized it, and it was Blaine's job to watch out for him. If this was true… then where the Hell had Blaine been? Had he really been that unobservant…

"It wasn't on purpose," Kurt said quietly, ignoring the way Blaine scoffed at that. "It just happened. I don't know why, really." But Blaine wasn't listening. His eyes which before had been intent on Kurt's face, were suddenly fixated, after flitting down briefly a moment before, on a very specific place on Kurt's stomach, and when he looked down at himself, he knew exactly what it was his boyfriend was looking at.

"Does that say what I think it says, Kurt?" Blaine asked, his voice so weak it was barely audible.

"It's nothing, okay?"

"No it's not _nothing_, Kurt!" his voice suddenly equally as strong as it had been faltering a moment before. He leaned down again, and cocked his head a little bit to get a better look at it. Before it had only looked like randomized cuts, but now, upon closer inspection, it took form. It may have been upside down, but there was no mistaking it now that Blaine saw it. The "FAGGOT" branding Kurt had carved up in his skin glared out at him, and his breath actual caught in his throat for a moment. "_Jesus_."

Kurt put his hand over top of the word, and Blaine stared up at him, an expression that read nothing but 'I have no idea what to do', on his face. Kurt knew this hurt his boyfriend worst of all. Seeing that hate engrained in what was by now a probably pretty permanent scar, without any explanation, or reason as to why his boyfriend was treating himself so badly, with so much distaste – it was killing Blaine.

"I have to tell Burt, Kurt," he said softly, and suddenly, what he was doing to Blaine didn't matter at all. Every single part of his body became alert, and the adrenaline just poured in, because _what_? No. His father _could_ _not_ _know_.

"No!" Kurt practically yelled, backing away from Blaine and almost falling onto the bed behind him. "No, no, no, you _cannot_ do that."

"Kurt, look at yourself!" Blaine was definitely starting to cry now. Not a lot, and it may have been out of shock and fear more than anything, but a tear or two leaked from the corners of his eyes as he looked at his boyfriend with a pleading expression. "Please, we have to get you help. You can't be doing stuff like _this_."

"Blaine, don't you understand, my father can't know about this! It would kill him! Half the reason I even started is because I didn't want him worrying about all the… the anxiety and stuff. Please, Blaine, I'll stop, okay? I'll stop. Just don't tell him."

"Kurt…"

"_Please_."

Blaine opened his mouth and moved his jaw a little bit, as if he was trying to say something, but finally he just shrugged, defeated. "Only if you promise to stop, Kurt." He sounded completely unsure, his voice flat and exasperated, but what if telling Burt only exasperated the problem? If Kurt could stop – _actually_ stop – then what was the point of making Burt's father go insane, because, being perfectly honest, this would _break_ Burt.

"Yeah yeah, no problem," he said hurriedly, not even really listening to what he was saying, but knowing that he was going to prevent his father from knowing about this if it was the last thing he did.

Blaine bit his lip and looked off to the side. He looked so upset, so _disappointed_. Kurt hated seeing the person he loved feeling so dejected like this, and knowing it was entirely his fault, but as bad as it hurt to see Blaine like this, he knew seeing his father like that would be a million times worse.

"I'm sorry," Kurt muttered, and Blaine shook his head, looking back over and meeting Kurt's gaze.

"I don't get it, Kurt," he whispered, voice a little watery. "Why would you keep this from me? Why would you do it in the first place?"

"I understand," Kurt said, his own eyes burning almost unbearably. "If you don't want to be with me anymore after this. I won't blame you. I mean, I lied, and… well, look at me," he gestured down at his body, his stomach laced with blade marks, and hung his head. "I can barely even stand how it looks. And I can't… I can't let you go any further, physically, right now. This is why, obviously. And I know you probably are sick of just kissing, and…" he trailed off.

"Oh baby," Blaine blurted out, tears coming for real now. "No, no, no, don't say that." He grabbed Kurt and pulled him into a tight embrace, which Kurt's high strung body felt uncomfortable in, but which felt reassuring nonetheless. "I do not understand how or why this is happening, Kurt," Blaine breathed into his boyfriend's ear. "But I'm not going anywhere. We're going to get through it, together. And don't you dare think that I would break up with you because we're not getting physical. I'm not using you for sex, Kurt. I'm here because I love you, and I want to be with you. So don't worry, okay?"

"Okay."

Blaine pulled back a little and placed a soft kiss on Kurt's lips. "We'll handle it."

"We'll handle it," Kurt echoed, nodding his head in agreement, trying to give a reassuring smile, which he was certain looked more pained than anything, but if it did, Blaine didn't mention it.

Blaine dropped his grip, and there was an awkward silence as the two of them stood in a 'what do we do now' sort of stance. Kurt cleared his throat and began to scratch absently at left forearm, maybe a little harder than he should have. It wasn't a suspicious action, though, so Blaine didn't notice.

"Do you… do you mind letting me be alone for a while now?" Kurt asked. "No offense or anything, but this is sort of uncomfortable… Not you, or anything, just the situation. It makes me feel… vulnerable."

Blaine looked like he wanted to argue, but he had never dealt with something like this before, so who was he to say what was right or wrong? This wasn't the end of this conversation – both boys knew that – but Blaine could let Kurt collect himself before they continued it later, because honestly, looking at his boyfriend, Blaine saw that Kurt looked positively flushed and sick and exhausted. Was that a recent thing, or had he looked that way for a while? It bothered him that he didn't know.

"Yeah," he said, patting Kurt on the shoulder. "Yeah, no problem. I'll call you tonight, or I can come by tomorrow, or both, or…" he trailed off, and Kurt nodded.

"Yeah, sounds great." Kurt was still scratching at his forearm, but Blaine didn't seem to realize it. He was using his thumb nail, pressed hard into the skin, running over the same spot over and over compulsively, and it burned a little like a rug burn, just the right amount of pain to keep him centered enough to finish the conversation.

"Right, well…" Blaine coughed awkwardly.

"Don't forget your phone."

"Right." Blaine went over and picked his phone off the bed – the one that if he hadn't forgot in the first place, he would still be in the dark about Kurt's secret. He stood there, uncertain for a few moments.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Kurt said. He didn't look mad, but his voice had a distinct 'please get out' air to it, and Blaine knew it.

"See you tomorrow. I love you," Blaine said, as he opened Kurt's door.

"Love you too."

Kurt listened to Blaine walk down the stairs. He heard him open and shut the front door. From a distance, down on the street, he heard Blaine turn on his ignition, and he heard him drive away. The entire time, his thumb nail never left the skin of his forearm, and when it finally did, Kurt saw traces of blood adorning the clear part of his fingernail. He looked at his arm and saw a fairly small patch of rubbed off skin. It wasn't bleeding freely like the cuts did, but it was red and moist, like several layers of skin had been taken off.

He took his attention off his arm, and instead, focused it on his razor blade, which was still lying idly on the floor beside his bed. He went over and picked it up, feeling the smooth metal with the pad of his finger, and playing lightly with the blade across his palm. His hands were shaking – they were shaking hard. His stomach was aching, and his head was throbbing at all the different hyped-up senses he was feeling. It was all too much to handle just by waiting it out.

Guilt filled him up, and he rolled his eyes at himself. He said he wouldn't do it anymore. He promised that he wouldn't. He couldn't.

But he had become a very excellent liar in the past two months, and it was just one more time. Just this once to calm himself down, and from then on he would be able to control it. From then on he would find a new outlet. But just this one more time. He needed this one more time.

And so, with a distant thought of, "What Blaine doesn't know won't hurt him," Kurt placed the blade back on the spot he had pinpointed earlier, and dragged it firmly across the skin. A moment later, the blood began to flow, and all focus on the sharp pain of the wound, Kurt began to breathe easy once again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Notes: **

**Supermegafoxyawesomehot Readers,**

**AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I apologize profusely for my lateness of updating (granted, compared to my other WIPs, I've been much more prompt with this one). I am afraid that I have been in a very tremendous battle with a horrendous Writer's Block Monster. I think I got him beat, though. However, I decided to divide chapter 9 up into two parts, namely just so I could update tonight. I apologize in advanced if this part has more typos than my other chapters, because I did not edit if as closely, for the same reason. It's getting late, I was running out of time, and I'm tired anyway, so I probably would do a shitty job at editing right now. I promise you that I do indeed have a grasp of the English language, and I have an illustrated copy of "Elements of Style", so I'm not completely dumb. I'm just lazy. :) If there's something big, though, please let me know. Until then, please review, because whenever you review, you give Sue Sylvester a bigger heart. **

**ENJOY:**

Chapter 9; Part 1

"Cheers!" Burt exclaimed, raising his wine glass in the air. Everyone else at the table followed in suit, and the sound of clanking glass filled the table. The Hummel-Hudson family was at Breadstix, celebrating Carole's promotion to head nurse at the hospital she worked at. It was a family celebration, but Burt had insisted that Kurt bring Blaine along, and Kurt had obliged, despite the fact that an awkward tension currently existed between the two boys. They had yet to really discuss what had happened in Kurt's room over a week before – every time they talked, Blaine wanted to bring it up, and Kurt continuously shot it down, answering Blaine's questions with short, "It's fine, I'm not doing it anymore, stop worrying," types of answers, that Blaine was wary of. Eventually, it got to the point to where Kurt just turned his phone off for a few days, claiming there was something wrong with the battery and it wouldn't keep a charge. He also avoided Blaine on Skype and Facebook chat as much as possible, responding to Blaine's inquiring messages and e-mails with, "Oh, we must have just missed each other. Sorry. Maybe I'll be on tonight."

Kurt hated avoiding Blaine, but he hated the prospect of talking about his problems even more. Discussing the cutting would inevitably lead to discussing the bullying, and that would almost certainly lead to Blaine flipping shit and telling Burt, and Kurt couldn't handle that – he truly could not. Besides, keeping his phone off, although making things a bit lonely, did mean that it was easier to keep his promise to Blaine. No phone meant no nasty voicemails, which meant no reason to hurt himself. So far, he had only broken that promise three times – the night all the stuff had went down, and then two other times when he had gotten some particularly nasty hate mail, because, unfortunately, his bullies still had more than one form of harassment.

All of that said, he couldn't very easily tell his father that he didn't want his boyfriend to come with them without causing suspicion. The fact that Burt had been the one with the idea in the first place showed that Kurt's father was getting used to the idea of Blaine sticking around for a while, and being a part of the family – how could Kurt say no to that?

And so Blaine had joined them.

It wasn't all bad, really. Since they were with all of Kurt's family, the touchy subject couldn't come up, and this way, Kurt was able to make-up for being so distant for so many days. Blaine had been ecstatic at the invite, so much so that it was clear that Kurt's avoidance had been getting to him, and really? It was getting to Kurt too. He missed Blaine, but it was a necessary precaution against secrets getting spilled.

"And just think," Burt was saying a bit loudly from excitement. 'With the extra money we can finally go on that honeymoon!" Carole and Burt smiled stupidly at one another, unaware of Kurt shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It had been his fault that they had had to miss out on their honeymoon in the first place. His stupid school problems that he couldn't handle on his own. Not this time, though. This time, Kurt would handle everything – he _was_ handling everything – and his family would remain unburdened. He took his father's words as reaffirmation of his actions, and tugged down at his shirt a little, unconsciously.

The dinner went on for a while uneventfully. Burt was drinking a little too much wine, ("Come on, it's a celebration! Besides, I've been damn good with my health. What's a little splurge here and there?" he'd asked between sips of his third glass.) Finn was talking on and on about the yoga class Rachel had dragged him to, ("I mean, seriously, who _bends_ that way? It isn't natural. The only time I've seen someone twisted up like that was after they were smashed down by a hefty linebacker…"), and Blaine was sitting in his chair, politely quiet, rubbing his hand absent-mindedly against Kurt's thigh underneath the table, just enjoying the closeness they'd lacked that week. Kurt didn't pull way, also glad to be close, having missed being able to appreciate Blaine's touch without being afraid.

It was just as their main courses were arriving did Kurt notice him across the room. He was seated almost completely parallel to Kurt, and when the other people between them moved away, they were facing each other nearly dead on. It took Kurt a moment to place where he knew his face from – but only a moment, because soon, the memory came flooding back. The alleyway, so many weeks ago, where he had been shoved into gravel and scared beyond reason – his hands ached at the thought – and this guy? This guy had been the third person in the group – the one he hadn't recognized. The one who helped hold him back as Azimio touched him.

Kurt's entire body tensed up upon recognition of this guy, and Blaine noticed it, moving his hand away from his boyfriend's thigh.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked softly so the other's (who were too busy getting their plates anyway) couldn't hear.

"Huh?" Kurt asked distractedly, looking away from the guy. "What? Oh. Yeah, yeah I'm fine." He feigned a smile, which Blaine accepted after a slight furrowing of his distinctive brows. His attention turned to his own plate of food, and Kurt's returned to the guy, who, this time, looked up and caught his gaze.

It was like slow motion, and Kurt could have sworn that he couldn't hear anything but the solid, steady beat of his heart, as from across the room, the guys' face showed dawning realization, and a disgusting grin adorned his lips.

Kurt was the first to turn away, trying to focus on eating, but his stomach was not having it. After two smaller than average bites, his belly cramped up, and he resorted to pushing the food around with his fork instead. Every so often he would glance back up at the guy, who was often times looking back, sometimes just staring and smirking, and sometimes mouthing an unmistakable, "Fag." Of course he would be here the same time Kurt was, because that's exactly how his luck had been lately.

'He's with his family,' Kurt thought to himself, noting the older man and woman, and a pre-teen girl that sat at the guy's table. 'He won't do anything to me when he's with his family.'

But as logical as it may have seemed, Kurt was forced to remember that anxiety isn't usually responsive to reason. His head was suddenly filled with brutal images of what this guy may do to him if given the chance. He tried his hardest not to convey any of his fear on his face, as to not make his family suspicious. On the outside he kept an expression of mild interest to whatever topic Carole was rattling on about (he really hoped his occasional nod of the head wasn't out of place, because he really had no idea what she was talking about), while internally, his anxiety was building, and he knew that if he didn't do something fast, he was going to get propelled into full-on attack mode, right there, at family dinner, with no way of stopping.

He cursed himself for not bringing a razor with him. Surely, with panic-anxiety problems as severe as his, having a means of security would just be common sense, but he hadn't thought about it, and now he was stuck. He began to scratch his forearm, a little unconsciously, and a little on purpose as a means to calm himself down a bit as he looked around the table, as subtly as he could, for anything that may help him.

His eyes landed on the standard, black-handled steak knife that had come rolled up in his cloth napkin. He regarded it with wide, unblinking eyes, wondering just how he could pull it off.

"Kurt!" Burt's voice broke him out of his trance.

"Huh?" he asked, snapping his gaze up.

"You okay? You've barely touched your food. There somethin' wrong with it?"

Everyone at the table was looking at him, and he felt himself grow hot at the pressure. The adrenaline was making sitting still a near-impossibility, and even though that guy was on the total opposite side of the room, just eating dinner with his family (he had looked just as surprised as Kurt that they were both there, so clearly there was no purposeful ulterior motive), Kurt could think of nothing but that guy's hate, and the more he tried to focus on control, the more out of it he felt.

"No, nothing's wrong with it," Kurt said as steadily as he could, and he tried to give a smile he sure looked less than convincing. His mind flew back to that knife on the table, and to how a few minutes with that would solve everything for right now. "I'm just not that hungry. Too many breadsticks, I guess."

"You only ate like, one, Kurt," Blaine pointed out quietly with a worried expression.

"Carbs are filling," Kurt said with a shrug. "Don't worry, I'll take it home. I'll eat it tomorrow."

"You sure, Son? Maybe you should eat a few bites. You look a little flushed, and now that I'm lookin' at you, you're lookin' pretty thin."

Kurt's new eating habits (or lack thereof) had caused him to lose an unhealthy amount of weight, but so far he had managed to hide it pretty well, and he wasn't about to draw more attention to it. Instead, he whined, "_Daaad_, I'm _fine_!"

Burt gave him a _look_, but said, "Whatever, eat or don't eat. I just don't get how you can sit with a full plate of hot, delicious food on your plate and just push it away to save for later. Maybe I should take notes from you." He chuckled and thankfully turned back to Carole before he could notice that Kurt wasn't laughing with him. His insides were still doing cartwheels, and his thoughts were still on the sharp blade of that knife, but he became acutely aware that Blaine's stare was fixated on him intently.

"_What_?" Kurt snapped, frustrated, ruder than he meant to, turning his head to look over at his boyfriend. Blaine flinched a little at Kurt's harsh tone, but all he did was shrug. Really, he was just looking Kurt over. He _was_ a lot thinner, and why hadn't he noticed this before? When was the last time he saw Kurt eat something? It bothered him that he couldn't think of when. He opened his mouth stupidly, like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a muttered,

"Nothing." And he turned away.

Kurt felt guilty for all of ten seconds before remembering the matter at hand. He had already worn a small welt in his arm from his fingernails, which he would have to make a lie for later, because it surely was going to scar, and truthfully, it hadn't done much to stop his nerves from getting worse. All it really did was delay the inevitable – full-blown panic attack that he would have a hard time lying his way through. That was, unless he could do something about it.

He had to act quickly. The mere contemplation of what he was about to do was just making things worse. As inconspicuously as he could, he grabbed his bag (no, he argued time and time again, it was _not_ a purse), and sat it on his lap, unzipping the middle pocket without looking down at it. He gave a quick once over at everyone. Finn had caught Blaine's attention in some sort of football babble that Kurt wouldn't have cared about even under normal circumstances, and a slightly tipsy Burt was laughing loudly to an anecdote Carole was telling. No one noticed, then, as Kurt snatched the knife off the table and slipped it into his bag in one quick motion.

"I'll be right back," he announced, jumping to his feet, slinging the bag over his shoulder, thankful to be able to move around. Everyone looked up at him as he said, a little too quickly, "I need to use the little boy's room, plus, the humidity in this building is just doing crazy things to my hair. A quick touch-up is definitely needed. I won't be long. Can you believe how gross the air is in here? Maybe instead of investing in this horrendous décor, they should put some money towards a proper air conditioning system." He laughed nervously. as he pushed in his chair. "Anyway, be right back."

He knew rambled, but he turned on his heel and headed toward the bathroom before any of them had a chance to question him.

I n the bathroom there was just one other person, and he was washing his hands. Kurt gave a little nod, which the man reciprocated, and then, by-passing the urinals, Kurt barricaded himself in one of the stalls. He stood there awkwardly for a minute until he heard the rustling of paper towels, and the swing-shut sound of the door closing. Immediately thereafter, Kurt fumbled with the zipper of his bag. He all but ripped it open and reached in and grabbed the knife carefully by the black, plastic handle.

No time was wasted. Blood already on the verge of exploding, Kurt could barely control himself. He unbuttoned his shirt and made a few sloppy cuts on his skin. He cringed at the feel, having gotten used to the smooth slice of his single-blade razors. The knife wasn't dull, but it was clunky and awkward, and hard to maneuver. He ended up cutting himself deeper than he meant to. He realized this as blood gushed in a pretty substantial stream, which looked a little heavy for single-ply toilet paper to mop up.

"Shit," Kurt muttered to himself, sitting the knifed down on the dispenser. He grabbed a big wad of toilet paper and shoved it up against the wound, trying to stopper it before it go to his beltline where the blood stain may be noticeable. He kicked himself for his lack of self-control. This would be risking infection. He almost never cut without being able to clean it up right after – how would he be able to explain infection, he had reasoned, if it ever got bad enough? He felt unsafe without a bandage and a bottle of Neosporin. This cut would not only be dirty, but it was also very likely to stain one of his best shirts. This was dumb, but, like usual, he didn't realize the stupidity of his own action until he had already done it. Didn't he used to have common sense?

He couldn't worry about that right then, though. Although messy and shoddily done, the cuts had done what they were meant to. Kurt was breathing easier now, and a few more blood-soaked wads of toilet paper later, the bleeding had turned into a small, clotting trickle, and he decided to finish up and head back to the table before he had been gone for too much time – they could only buy the hair story for so long.

He threw the wads into the toilet and flushed them away. Buttoning his shirt up against his still tender cuts hurt and chaffed, but he ignored it. He looked at the blood-laced knife and decided it was only common courtesy that he wash it off before giving it back, if only so his family wouldn't ask him how his steak knife got coated with blood.

He undid the lock to the bathroom stall, walked out, and found himself face to face with the guy that had caused this anxiety-freak out in the first place. He hadn't even heard the door open.

"Hey there, Kurt," he said with a malicious looking grin, as the other boy stopped dead in his tracks and stared in horror. The guy looked him over, moving his eyes up and down. The grin got wider. "Having fun in there?" He laughed as he reached over and took the crimson bladed knife from Kurt's hands, and held it lightly, easily, in his own.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Notes**

**'Sup thurr, Uber Awesome Readers!**

**Here's is the second part to the monstrosity that is chapter 9 of "Handling It". There is some pretty instense gay bashing in this part, that I almost thought was too unrealistic as I was writing it, and then I remember that there are actually people who actually do feel this much hatred, and go to even greater lengths to show it, and then I got depressed, and started thinking about all the gay hate crime, and that was a big bummer, but it put me in the right mindset to finish this chapter, so I guess...? Idk. This chapter is intense. A lot of drama. It was interesting to write, because I had thought about this scene a bajillion times, but actually writing it was completely different. Anyway. You know the drill. Read. Enjoy. Review me if you want. I'm too bummed out about gay hate crime to think about a clever way to ask for reviews, so I guess I'll just say, "Pretty please with cherries on top?" and hope that works out for me.**

**Enjoy:**

Chapter 9; Part 2

"How did you know I was in here?" Kurt asked stupidly.

"Are you dumb? I _watched_ you get up from your table. And I saw you sneak _this_," he held up the knife. "In your little lady-purse before you went."

"Please let me go," Kurt begged in a very pathetic, non-Kurtesque way, which just made the other boy laugh. "Please? Someone might come in. Think of how this'll look. How you'll look…" he trailed off, eyes set on his self-harm tool in a pair of foreign hands.

The other boy ran lazy fingers lightly over the blade. He rubbed his index finger and thumb together and said, ignoring Kurt's plead, "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say this was blood. Is it blood, Kurtie? Huh?" He grinned maliciously. "Is it _your_ blood?"

Kurt didn't say anything, but merely continued to stand there, gulping heavily, trying not to lose all control, and failing – failing miserably.

The other boy quirked an eyebrow and stepped closer to Kurt, the knife pointed out like a spear as a sort of barrier between them. "I think," he said pointedly. "I just asked you a question." He reached over with his free hand and lifted Kurt's chin up. Kurt cringed at the touch, but allowed his head to be lifted until his eyes met the other boy's. "I asked you if this was your blood." Very, very slowly, Kurt nodded his head. "_Say_ _it_."

"It's mine."

The other boy laughed a sharp, loud, raucous laugh, which reverberated off the bathroom walls and filled the room. "Seriously?" he asked, grinning wide, as though he couldn't believe his luck. "_Seriously_? You're a little _emo_ kid? Is that really how you deal with your problems? Shit! That's hilarious!" He shook his head. "Honestly, Kurtie-poo, I hadn't pinned you for such a weak-ass, but I guess it makes sense."

"Don't you feel," Kurt managed to say, although he said it so quietly it was barely audible. "Don't you feel any regret or guilt?" He wanted to break the eye contact, but he stood his ground. "Any at all? This… this is your fault, you know that? You and Azimio and that other kid… you're the reason I… I…" he gestured lamely at the knife in the other boy's hand, and then dropped his head, defeated, as if speaking so much had left him completely exhausted.

"No," the other boy said incredulously. "No, see, I don't feel any regret, or guilt, or anything. And you wanna know why?" Kurt didn't want to know – he really didn't – but he wasn't exactly in a position to object, besides, he had a feeling the question was rhetorical. The other boy took yet another step forward, until the point of the knife was almost touching Kurt's abdomen. It was funny, really, how an object which before had been such a form of salvation, was now being pinned against him like a threat.

"It's because I was taught that little _faggots_ like you are not worth the time of day. You're not worth _kindness_. You're not worth _sympathy_. You are _worthless_. So if I am the reason you use this knife to hurt yourself? Well, all I can say is that I am glad to do a service to this town, for making one more faggot realize how _awful_ his existence really is, and my only _regret_? Well, Kurtie-poo, my only regret is that you don't cut deep enough to bleed to death."

Kurt didn't say anything. Any relief he had gotten from the cuts before was gone as fast as it had come, and now all he wanted to do was slice up every inch of his skin. He felt like every cell in his body was shaking and he wanted to let it all out. He wanted to _bleed_. But all he could do was stare, as the other boy stepped back and smirked at him. He lowered the knife out of a threatening position and shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm not sorry for any of it." It was the most sincere statement Kurt had ever heard, and that scared him.

Just then the door to the bathroom opened, and both boys looked over to see who it was. To Kurt's utter dismay, it was Blaine.

"Kurt, they sent me in here to make sure you were oka-" he stopped midsentence. He looked from the other boy, to his boyfriend, and back again, before finally resting his eyes on Kurt. His boyfriend was paler than he had ever seen him, and he was visibly shaking. His eyes were wide and he looked like he was on the verge of tears. "What's going on?" Blaine demanded suddenly. "Kurt, are you okay?"

"Here," the other boy said with a tone that sounded sympathetic, stepping in front of Blaine so they were face to face. He handed the knife to him, and Blaine gave him a bewildered look.

"What is this?"

"I came in here and heard him in one of the stalls." The other boy was speaking softly in a way that only Kurt knew was really just mocking. He cupped the side of his mouth and whispered, "I think he may have been _cutting_ himself." The boy then stepped around Blaine, and headed for the door, but not before turning to Kurt one more time, winking, and mouthing "Faggot", while Blaine's back was turned.

The bathroom door opened and closed, and he was gone.

Blaine and Kurt stood face to face, the knife, which had been in foreign hands, was now in familiar ones. Kurt wasn't sure which was worse.

"Blaine…" Kurt started, but he was in no shape to explain. He wasn't even sure if he could. He felt dizzy, like he might pass out, and his mind was still on a single track – release. He hardly even processed his boyfriend's look of devastation, as he regarded the utensil in his hand.

"You promised me," he muttered, avoiding his boyfriend's face.

"I need to go home," was all Kurt managed to say.

"Kurt, I can't… Burt has to know. He has to."

"Take me home. Please?" The plead in Kurt's voice got to Blaine, and he forced himself to look up, and he realized his boyfriend was practically in shambles, shaking even harder now – whiter than a ghost.

"What is going on, Kurt? I want to help you, but doing this in the middle of a public restroom…?" he shook his head, clearly in a bit of a daze. "What were you _thinking_?"

"If you want to help me, then take me home."

"Kurt… did you know that guy?"

"You drove your car here. You can take me home."

"Damnit Kurt!" Blaine raised his voice almost involuntarily, it bouncing off the walls the same way that sharp laugh had, and Kurt jumped at the sound. Blaine immediately lowered his voice, realizing just how on edge his boyfriend was. "Level with me here, baby. I'm not stupid. I know there was something else going on in here. That guy was too blunt – too direct. And if he didn't know you, why would he stand out here and wait for you to get out of a stall?"

"I don't know him, I don't care to, please listen to me, I need to _leave_."

"Jesus, stop deflecting!" Blaine looked away, staring off into space, biting his lip. "I can't keep this from your Dad, Kurt. This is more serious than I thought."

"Not right now. Not today. Let them celebrate. Just please, _take me home_."

Blaine turned and tried to read his boyfriend's expression, and all he got from it was terror and need. He became intensely aware that they were still standing in a public restroom, and anyone at any moment could walk in and see this scene. Nothing was going to get resolved in this restaurant. They needed privacy, and Kurt was right, his father didn't need to know this right that second – not while he was happy and celebrating. Sighing, Blaine sat the knife on the sink with the intent of leaving it there.

"Okay," he agreed dejectedly. "Okay, I'll take you home."

Kurt was slumped in the passenger seat with his hands over his face, when Blaine opened the door to the driver's side. He got in silently and turned on the car. They were already out of the Breadstix parking lot before Kurt mumbled, "What did you tell them?"

"I told them that you had gotten sick and that you thought you should go home. I told them not to worry, and to enjoy the rest of their evening. They probably won't be back for a while."

"Thank you," Kurt said quietly.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Hm?"

"Are you going to tell me why you suddenly thought you had to go in the bathroom and cut yourself with a steak knife?"

"No," Kurt said, being completely honest for the first time in ages, because, no, he wasn't going to tell Blaine. He didn't care. Right then, all he wanted was the privacy of his bedroom, and the comfort of his razors, so he could bury everything that boy had said to him away in his subconscious – so he could stop feeling so anxious and worthless as he did right then.

"Whatever," Blaine muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated. He reached over and turned the radio on, and the two didn't speak the rest of the way. Blaine noted, with some dismay, that Kurt's legs never stopped bouncing, and he was scratching at his arm. He thought better of mentioning it.

They pulled into the Hummel-Hudson driveway, and Blaine turned off his car, to which Kurt finally removed his hands off his face in order to look over at his boyfriend with confusion. "What are you doing?" he asked in a weak voice.

"I'm coming in with you," Blaine said. Kurt stared. He hadn't banked on that.

"No," was all he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt, but Blaine simply ignored him, undoing his own as well. He got out and followed Kurt up his drive and to his front door. Kurt turned and stared at him, arms crossed, and looking infuriated. "Go."

"No, let me in."

"_No_."

"Just for a minute. Just so I can get you to bed and make sure you're alright."

"Blaine…" The anxiety was no longer an attack, but it was still ever present, making every bone in his body ache with exhaustion as it tried to keep up with the adrenaline-induced hyperactivity of his heart. He felt miserable, the other boy's words resonating deeper than he could have imagined, and he needed to, literally, dig them out of himself with a blade. With all this, he had no energy left to argue, so he simply hoped his boyfriend would read his expression, and understand the necessity for him to be alone right now. But, as his luck had shown that entire night, Blaine was refusing to listen.

"Let me in, Kurt. I'm not leaving you alone right now."

Kurt unlocked the door, and thought about hurrying in and closing and locking the door in Blaine's face, but it didn't matter. Even if he wanted to, Blaine was faster, as he opened the door as soon as Kurt turned the key, and hurried inside, as if anticipating what Kurt had been contemplating. Kurt sighed, weak and frustrated, as he too, stepped over the threshold into his house.

"You really, really should leave, Blaine," he muttered, as he turned to go up the stairs. He heard Blaine shut the front door, and his footsteps creak behind him, following him to his room, annoyingly.

Once they were in there, Kurt sat on his bed and threw his hands up angrily, while Blaine stood in the doorway with an awkward stance. "I know what you're trying to do here, Blaine," he said, voice level and monotone. "I know what you're trying to prevent, but I'm telling you, there's no point. You should just go."

"Think how you would feel if you were in my situation, Kurt," Blaine whispered. "Think how you would feel if you found out that, not only was I cutting myself who knows how often, but I was also all but starving myself, and getting panic attacks, and you had no idea why. How would feel?"

Kurt thought about it. He thought about Blaine standing in his own room, with his own razor, putting slices in his skin, and how awful that would be. How he would fight to the death to make sure Blaine never hurt a hair on his own body again. "It would destroy me," he said honestly, shrugging.

"_Exactly_."

"It doesn't matter, Blaine. I'm sorry this is hurting you, but I have to do this."

"No you don't! Don't you get it? You don't have to! Whatever is making you do this, I am certain there is another option."

"Listen, you already told me that you're going to tell my Dad. Why don't you just get out of here and let me have my privacy one more time, okay? Let me be before everything goes to Hell."

"You honestly think I'm going to just leave you here by yourself, Kurt? After everything that happened tonight, you think I'm that dense? You lied to me. You promised me you'd stop."

"Maybe I don't want to stop!" Kurt's voice was loud and harsh, and it made Blaine freeze for a second. "Maybe… Maybe I am perfectly content with how I'm handling things, and maybe it is none of your business what I do in the privacy of my bedroom!" He put a hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath, which was now coming in such big heaves that he was almost hyperventilating. "Please," he said, quietly now. "Please, Blaine, just _go_."

"If I go then you're just going to hurt yourself."

"If you leave now, if you leave in three hours, if you tell my Dad or not, I'm going to do it anyway. You might as well just get out and let me do it now."

Blaine looked at a loss. He clicked his tongue a few times, thinking, before closing the door to Kurt's bedroom, and going over and sitting next to his boyfriend on the bed. "Fine," he said flatly. "Then do it."

"What? With you right here?"

"Yeah. With me right here."

"You're insane."

"If you're going to do it regardless," Blaine said with a shrug. "Then I guess the only thing I can do is sit here and make sure you don't, I dunno, accidentally do it too deep, or bleed too much, or something."

"Blaine," Kurt groaned, exasperated now. "Please, just _go_. I don't know how many times I have to tell you. Go. Go. _Go_."

"You want to do it so bad, than I don't see how my presence should stop you."

"You have no idea how many lines you're crossing right now, Blaine," Kurt said through gritted teeth. "This is probably the most personal thing in the world to me, and you do _not_ have a right to witness it."

"Then I guess you're just going to have to wait to do it, because I'm not leaving."

Kurt fumed, his anxiety turning to anger. Why wouldn't his boyfriend understand? Blaine didn't know how irrational Kurt got when he was like this. He didn't know how deep the need was. He didn't know that, inside, every part of him, from his stomach, to his heart, to his thoughts, was just a mess of broken pieces.

"Fuck it," Kurt snapped, making Blaine raise his eyebrows, because Kurt very rarely swore so nastily. "Fuck it. You want to watch this? You really think you want to? Then Fuck. It."

He leaned over and opened his bedside drawer and pulled out his bloody t-shirt rag. He held it out to Blaine. "Hold that for me, would you?" he asked with a smirk. He was being an asshole, he knew it, but he wanted Blaine to know just how angry he was. What looked like a wave of nausea passed over Blaine's face for just a moment, before being replaced with an emotionless, stony expression, as he took the rag from Kurt with two fingers in a thin pinch. He held it up, touching it as little as he could without dropping it, while Kurt continued to prepare.

Digging around in his drawer, he found the container of razor blades. He pulled it out and got a fresh, never-been-used one out of the package, mainly just for show. If Blaine was going to torment him like this, then he was going to torment him right back.

He didn't give Blaine the razor to hold. Instead, he sat it on top of his table, as he stood up and began to unbutton his shirt. He could feel his boyfriend's eyes eating into his back, but he was determined now. He got to the last button, and he slipped the shirt off his body, scoffing at the blood stain on the inside of it. "Great," he muttered, tossing it aside. He looked down to examine the cut from the bathroom. Blaine leaned forward and looked too.

"That's pretty nasty," he said in the same flat tone, as though he were consciously trying not to show any emotion at this. He was right, though. The cut was jagged, and didn't clot very well. It was one of the worst cuts Kurt had ever placed on himself.

"Mhm. Damn serrated edges," Kurt mumbled. He made a note never to use those again.

"Huh," Blaine said in what Kurt supposed was an attempt at a bored voice, but he could hear how his boyfriend's voice cracked a little.

"You can leave at anytime," Kurt reminded pointedly.

"I told you, I'm not going to."

If anything, that made Kurt that much more determined. Rolling his eyes, he reached over and grabbed the razor. He turned so he was facing Blaine. "You sure?" he asked in a voice that said 'this is your last chance'. Blaine just gave a quick, thin lipped smile. Kurt shook his head, unbelievably annoyed. This was not something he shared with other people. This was something he did alone. But Blaine's insistence was grating, and the anticipation of it all was making it more and more necessary. Besides, he knew Blaine was going to regret his decision the second the blade touched Kurt's skin.

Kurt found an untouched spot on his stomach (it was getting harder and harder to find those), and, with eyes on his boyfriend the entire time, he placed the razor to himself and made a long, deep cut. He let out a long breath as his skin was sliced apart, remembering for just a moment why he was doing this in the first place. _Release_.

Blaine's expression remained stoic for a good while, his eyes directly on the blade, and the bloody lines Kurt was drawing in his skin. Finally, though, he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't pretend to be unaffected anymore. He leapt forward and caught Kurt's hand in his, saying, "Stop it. Okay? Just stop it."

Kurt did. He closed his eyes and let Blaine take the razor from his fingers. Breathing shakily, Blaine took the bloody rag, still in his hand, and very, very gently, used it to mop up the blood leaking down the length of his boyfriend's abdomen.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," he admitted quietly. Kurt opened his eyes and looked down and saw that Blaine was crying. He looked up at Kurt and they caught each other's gaze. "I really didn't."

And that's when the extent of it hit Kurt. Not just the fact that he had just cut himself right in front of his boyfriend's face, but all of it. The abuse, the hiding, the cutting itself – it all hit Kurt like a kick to the stomach, and suddenly he was retching. He stepped away from Blaine's touch, and ran to the bathroom, where he bent over the toilet, dry heaving from his empty stomach.

He wasn't sure when how long it was before Blaine had followed after him, but when he sat up, Blaine's hand was rubbing the small of his back gently, and he was saying, "It's okay. You're okay."

"Jesus," Kurt spat out, running fingers through his hair, certain he looked like some sort of barbarian, as he was sitting sprawled out on the bathroom floor, still shirtless and bloody, looking like death. "Jesus, Blaine, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking. I just…" he trailed off, and, for the first time since this whole thing had started, he broke down in tears.

Blaine let Kurt bury his face in his shoulder as he sobbed, saying soft, "Shhhh's".

"How can you stand to look at me?" Kurt moaned against his boyfriend's shoulder. "How can you stand someone as worthless as me? Look what I did. Look what I made you _watch_."

"You're not worthless," Blaine assured. "And I'm not going anywhere. I'm here."

Kurt pulled away and looked up at Blaine with a serious expression behind his tear stained face. "I don't know how to deal with this, Blaine. I don't know how to stop."

Nodding, Blaine tugged his boyfriend back into his chest, and whispered. "It's okay. We'll figure it out baby, I promise you, we'll think of something." He kissed the top of Kurt's head and stroked his back. "I promise. We'll handle it."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Notes:**

**The best readers on the planet (I don't know if I've used that already =/),**

**Hello, how are you? I really didn't want to split another chapter up, but this was taking me too long to write, and I was getting really behind on updating, and there was a decent break, so I was like, "Ugh, fine, whatever." So here you are, part 1 of chapter 10. Just so you know, my OC in this chapter is super awesome, and I love him a lot. I don't even care if you hate him - he's a BAMF to me. So ha. ALSO! I am realy bad at replying to reviews that I receive, but I just want to let you all know that the reviews you have been leaving me have been fantastic, and wonderful, and all of you are so great to feed my ego like that. I really do appreciate it, and am glad that you've stuck with this so long. I have no idea how much longer it'll be. I mean, I know what all it going to happen (I've known that for ages), but I don't have it broken up into chapters, per say, so there's still a decent amount left. Anyway, like always, reviews make my heart race in my skin tight jeans, so you should definitely leave me some more. ;D**

**Enjoy:**

Chapter 10 Part 1

"Look, Blaine, I don't about this…" Kurt trailed off, wringing his hands together nervously. In his chest his heart was thumping at a familiar high-speed rate, and beads of sweat began to gather along his hairline. He heard Blaine let out a sigh, clearly frustrated.

"You can't back out on me now. Do you know how hard it was for me to swing this? You _promised_ me. You can't break anymore promises, Kurt. This was the deal. Would you prefer I just told your Dad?"

"No, of course not," Kurt snapped. He rolled his eyes, because, yes, he knew Blaine had him stuck in a corner right now, and he didn't have many choices, but did Blaine really not understand how difficult this was for him? So he added, "You don't have to be such an asshole about it, though. It's not that easy, Blaine."

Blaine's face softened as he took note of his boyfriend's anxious stance, and he went over and put two hands on his Kurt's shoulders. "I know," he said, understandingly, tone completely shifted. "But you gotta do it. School starts up for you in two weeks, and one week for me, so I won't be able to check In on you as often. If you want to keep our deal – if you want to keep it so your Dad remains in the dark about all of this – I have to know you're getting some kind of help." He shrugged. "I just have to, Kurt."

After a moment of processing, Kurt gave a very slow nod of the head. "You'll be right out here the whole time?"

"I won't move an inch."

"What did you tell him my name was again?"

"Kent." Kurt grimaced as Blaine chuckled. "First thing that came to mind," he said apologetically. He kissed Kurt's cheek. "Go on. You'll be fine."

Kurt wasn't so sure, but chose not to object. Instead, he headed toward the big, polished wood door in front of them. The handle was round, silver, and shiny, and on the middle right edge of the door itself, there was a gold plaque that read, in bright letters, "Dr. Damien Craig". Kurt knocked twice, turned the handle with shaking hands, and headed in.

The entire room smelled like an odd mixture of patchouli incense and hand sanitizer. The place was big, spacious, and dark in a way that wasn't quite eerie, but not quite comfortable either, as though someone had dimmed the lights in an attempt to make the place seem less formal, but had turned them down a little too low. All of the furniture in the room was old and vintage, and there was only one window, with the blinds completely closed.

So this was where the Anderson family went to bare their souls. Somehow, it seemed fitting.

After the "incident" in Kurt's bedroom, both boys had agreed that something had to be done, but Kurt was still adamant about keeping the cause of his self-harm a secret, insisting that it was just an anxiety problem. Blaine knew there must be some sort of trigger, but he wasn't getting it from Kurt. He had asked, over and over, if it had something to do with the guy he had been in the bathroom with Kurt that night, or if it was something he was doing, but to no avail. And he wanted to tell someone, if only because he felt at a loss, unsure of how to deal with this alone – they were both just seventeen years old after all – but when he threatened to tell Burt again, Kurt literally fell to his knees and begged – legitimately _begged_ – Blaine to come up with some other solution. Blaine, unable to say no to the look of desperation on his love's face, obliged.

What Blaine came up with wasn't exactly what Kurt was expecting. His solution was anything but conventional, but it was something.

"I didn't even know you _had_ a family therapist, Blaine. Just how _loaded_ are you?" Kurt had asked incredulously when Blaine proposed his idea. Kurt knew that Blaine's family was well-off, but he had never asked specifics, feeling it rude to pry. But it was moments like this that he sort of wished he had. His boyfriend, reddened slightly from embarrassment, shrugged sheepishly and chose to ignore the inquiry.

"I didn't tell him your real first name, and I refused to give a last. I also didn't tell him exactly what you'd be going there for, but I think he sort of figured it out on his own. It took a lot of convincing, though, Kurt – he wasn't too keen on treating someone underage so anonymously like this, but after I told him I was sure you weren't going to seek other help on your own, and that you really needed it, he agreed to at least one session to assess the situation."

"What am I supposed to say to him? Do I just… what? Give all my secrets away to some stranger?"

"Well, he is a therapist, Kurt. That's kinda the point. Come on. I mean, you won't talk to me, you certainly won't talk to your Dad… it's worth a shot if it means it might make you better, right?"

Kurt wanted to ask, 'How is spilling my guts to a stranger going to stop hate mail and phone calls?' but of course he didn't. Instead, he thought of Blaine's sickened expression as he drew on himself with the blade. He thought about how in a few weeks' time, he would be at school, and having to face Azimio on a daily basis, which was horrifying when he could barely _think_ about the boy without his heart starting to pound in his chest, let alone actually seeing him. He thought about every scar littering his torso, and it was with the heaviness of these thoughts, did he agree to Blaine's plan.

And that was how he found himself in that office, rubbing at his nose involuntarily at the smell, and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dull lighting.

"Ah, you must be Kent," a deep voice rang out. Kurt turned and saw a tall, stocky man – a build similar to that of a lumberjack – with a thick, white beard, and kind, green eyes, approach him, hand held out in front of him. Kurt took the man's hand in his in a very brief greeting, as he muttered,

"Yeah, that's me."

"I'm Dr. Craig," the man said, pulling away and walking back to his large, oak desk and sitting down in the matching chair. He gestured toward the half-chair, half-bed, leather couch-thing in front of him and said, "Please, sit."

Kurt hesitated, but then shuffled over to the couch-thing, sitting down in the middle, facing Dr. Craig, feet planted flat and firmly on the floor.

"You can lay back on that, you know."

"It'll mess up my hair."

Fair enough." The doctor leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers. He regarded Kurt carefully. "So, Blaine says you've been having some problems." He smiled warmly. "Care to share?"

Kurt disliked this man instantaneously. With 'care to share' grating on his nerves, he shrugged his shoulders and kept his mouth shut. This didn't seem to discourage the doctor any. If anything, it merely motivated him more.

"Blaine was pretty vague on the details, Kent, but I got the impression that you may have been having some issues with self-harm. Is this true?"

Kurt shrugged again, but this time let out a small, "Maybe."

"Maybe." The doctor played with the word. "Maybe. You know, to me that sounds like a yes. Do you think you could tell me what kind of abuse you've _maybe_ been doing?"

Kurt opened his mouth but felt as though his tongue were lead. He opted instead to shake his head. No, he couldn't.

"I see." Dr. Craig leaned back even further in his chair. "How about this, then? How about we talk hypotheticals?" Kurt rose a confused brow, and the doctor clarified. "For example, I'll ask you, hypothetically speaking of course, if you were ever to self-harm yourself, would you do it with… say, anorexia?" He gave Kurt an expectant look, and Kurt fumbled to process the question.

"What? Uh, no," he muttered.

"Good, you're in perfect shape, it would totally wreck your figure," Dr. Craig said off-handedly, waving his arm in dismissal, and throwing Kurt off guard. He didn't have time to think about it, though, because the doctor was suddenly hurtling another question his way. "Okay, no anorexia then. So, hypothetically speaking, if you were ever to self-harm yourself, would you do it with drugs and alcohol?"

"No, of course not," Kurt said, still quiet, but a little more confidently.

"Well good. Those would probably wreck your figure too. Plus, you don't look like the type of person who could really hold his liquor." Kurt didn't even try to hide his eye roll. "It's just a guess, of course," Dr. Craig said when he saw the gesture. "I could be wrong." Kurt just shook his head. What was this guy's angle? He was getting increasingly more frustrated at the doctor's easy tone and bizarre comments. What kind of therapist was he?

"Alright, no anorexia, no drugs and alcohol, so I guess, next I would want to ask you," he made eye contact with Kurt and held it. "Hypothetically speaking, would you self-harm by cutting or burning yourself?"

There it was. The question Kurt knew Dr. Craig had been dancing around. If he answered honestly, then quite possibly, all the flood gates would open. He didn't want to be truthful. The well-used liar inside him was saying, "Don't do it!" over and over again, overprotective as always of his many secrets. But again, his mind flew back to Blaine, green in the cheeks, eyes wide with horror and disappointment, as he mopped up Kurt's wounds with the bloodied up rag.

"Cutting," he said, barely loud enough to even be considered a whisper. "No burning."

"Cutting, no burning," Dr. Craig said, as though he had just found the answer to the prize winning question on a game show. "A common form of self-abuse, really. An interesting practice when you think about it. The act of causing more pain to deal with other pain… seems contradictory, doesn't it?" he rambled at Kurt, who was looking at the doctor, completely puzzled. _What_? "So then, hypothetically," Dr. Craig went back to his questioning completely out of nowhere. "If you were to ever cut yourself, and who's to say you would of course, where you would you do it? On your body, I mean?"

"Hypothetically," Kurt squeaked out, playing along resentfully. "On my torso."

"On your torso," the doctor repeated, nodding. "Presumably so no one would be able to see them, right? That's smart."

"Uh-huh." Kurt regarded the doctor warily, waiting for the intervention that was surely to come next – waiting for this easy-going, soft toned guy to leave and be replaced with _Doctor_ Craig. But, to his confusion, the doctor continued his 'hypothetical' game, his voice still light and airy.

"Indeed, indeed," he said cheerfully. "And what, if anything, would ever drive you to do such a thing to yourself? Hypothetically, I mean."

"I dunno…" Kurt said, looking up at the ceiling. "Anxiety, maybe."

"Ah, anxiety!" Dr. Craig exclaimed fondly, clapping his hands together, causing Kurt to jump. "Anxiety, such a tricky rascal! A thing that can affect all parts of our bodies. A response that resides in the emotional, the cognitive, the behavioral... It can be normal, it can be excessive, it can be encouraging, it can be detrimental… yes, anxiety _indeed_." He grinned widely at Kurt, whose 'moderate' dislike of this man was quickly edging more and more towards 'severe' dislike.

"I don't need a psychology lesson," Kurt said haughtily. "I need your help."

"Oh? Well, I thought we were just a couple of men having a frank discussion of hypothetical situations, but if there is something you would like my help with…"

"Oh cut the crap!" Kurt snapped, finally. He expected Dr. Craig to recoil, but to Kurt's annoyance, he kept the same, small smile on his face he had had the entire session. This sent Kurt's nerves up in flames. "Obviously you know what's going on here. I _know_ you know, so why are you acting so cheery? Why are you acting like this is some sort of _game_? What sort of doctor are you?"

"What sort of doctor am I? Well, I'm a psychoanalytical therapist with a background in cognitive-behavioral therapy. If you doubt my credentials," He gestured toward the wall behind him, which was covered in an array of several different plaques. "You may certainly refer to my diplomas and awards." Kurt chose not to look. "As for helping you? Well, of course I want to, but my dear Kent, you yet to give me anything solid to go on."

"The Hell I haven't!" Kurt yelled, rubbing his temples before looking up, flushed and angry. This man was _infuriating_.

"I need more than a few hypothetical answers to a few hypothetical scenarios, Kent. Look, I'm not going to make you tell me anything, but until you can admit your problem to me, assuming there is one, of course, there is _nothing_ I can do for you." His smile faltered for just a moment, as he gave a stern stare at Kurt, who blushed slightly under the scrutiny, and turned away. The doctor then whispered, his tone now serious and flat, "So, what'll it be?"

Kurt let out a very long sigh, before looking back up, and saying in a solid, defeated voice, "Dr. Craig, I'm here because I cut myself." He shrugged as the corners of his eyes burned with tears, and he laughed a little bitterly at the irony that admitting this aloud did nothing but make him want his razors. "And I don't know how to stop."

The smile returned to the doctor's face, and he snapped his fingers. "There," he said softly, his tone now not exactly cheery, but still upbeat and sympathetic. "Now we're getting somewhere."


	12. UPDATE

**UPDATE:**

**Hey, . here, being a total dickweed, because I know it sucks to see that one of your story alerts have updated, just to find out that they are just telling you unpleasant things. Unfortunately, I felt it necessary. I'm just updating to let you know that I just moved into a college dorm, and have been/will be doing college like endeavors for a while, and thus, updates will be considerably more sporadic. That said, I still have every intention of finishing, so I hope you don't lose interest. I will try my best not to put too much space in between updates, but my workload is pretty insane (17 credit hours, plus one part-time job, and maybe two other jobs if I get them), so please forgive me if I am tardy. I adore Klaine with all my heart and soul, but academics must always come first. I love you all, and I hope you stick with me. I'm anxious to see this story to the end just as much as you, if not more.**

**Anyway, until then, go entertain yourself with your Klaine tag on tumblr (because you know you track it), and I'll try and get you some reading material asap.**

**Ta-ta for now, readers!**


	13. Chapter 13

**WHAT THE EFF IS UP READERS?**

**Two months later... Gah. I'm sorry. School is eating me alive. I'm also sorry this chapter isn't longer. I really, really want to finish this story, and there is so much left. Dx Please bear with me. You have been fabulous thus far. Perhaps the season 3 premiere will help the process along. (ONE WEEK! :D) Anyways, here is the rest of this chapter, effing finally. Dr. Craig is still a total BAMF, and I sort of want him as my therapist. I think whenever I'm feeling depressed I'll just talk to him in my head. Is that normal? No? Oh well. IDGAF. Here, stop listening to me talk, go read. And remember that when you give me reviews... ah fuck, I haven't updated in two months. I don't deserve to grovel for love and affection. So if you give me love and affection, I'll know I am simply spoiled because you guys are totally awesome, and no I'm not sucking up at all what are you talking about, okay I'm shutting up now, here:**

Chapter 10 Pt. 2:

Wasn't therapy supposed to help problems? Wasn't it supposed to calm you down and give you ways to cope? Kurt wondered this as his heart thumped wildly in his chest. He hated the way the doctor was regarding him. It wasn't patronizing or pitying – it was just a look of curiosity. This pissed Kurt off like no other, and he wasn't even sure as to why. Maybe because he felt as though a therapist should be beside themselves with sympathy and words of encouragement, and that a look of curiosity was a sign of only mild interest, but really? What really bothered Kurt was that he had just given away his biggest secret – his biggest shame – on purpose this time, and the world was still functioning normally. Self-centered as it might have been, he couldn't help but to think to himself, "Is this all there is?"

"Why?" The question hit Kurt's ear like a bullet, and he jumped in surprise, snapping out of his own thoughts.

"Why?" he repeated dumbly, not processing.

"Yeah. Why? I mean, you gotta have a reason, don't you? Unless you just woke up one day and thought to yourself, 'you know what would be a good idea…', in which case, I think we have a completely different problem on our hands."

"I can't tell you why," Kurt said ashamedly, knowing that that answer was definitely not gonna fly with the doctor.

"How come?" was of course the next question. "You know everything you say in here is totally confidential, right?"

Kurt thought about the pile of hate mail in his bedside drawer, stalked up neatly next to his razors. He thought about the unheard voice messages he had yet to delete off his phone from the handful of not-so-anonymous numbers. He thought of broken windows and bathroom confrontations. Was it enough to be considered crime? Harassment surely, but even more than that? And if it was, would the doctor be forced to tell authorities? Kurt couldn't ask Dr. Craig without warranting suspicion, and he couldn't take the risk, because even thought it would give him immeasurable amounts of relief to see his bullies formally punished for everything they had done, and were still doing, to him – every anxious, irrational bone in his body was telling him that his father _could not know_ about this, and if this situation ever became officially criminal, there would be no way to hide it anymore.

"I just can't." It was a flat, monotonous statement, but Dr. Craig could tell in was immovable. He sighed a long, exasperated sigh, and leaned back in his chair, scratching at his chin in an almost comically stereotypical way.

"What do you want from me here, Kent?" the doctor asked.

"Methods," Kurt said, speaking up louder because it was finally a question he could answer properly. "Techniques to help control my anxiety. Everything and anything to keep the razor off my skin, and my boyfriend off my back."

"You know Blaine isn't doing this to annoy you, right Kent? I mean, I don't think I would have even agreed to see you – you have to admit this is a little out of the ordinary – if Blaine hadn't been so insistent. He's worried about you, and honestly, from what I'm seeing? I think maybe he has legitimate reason to be."

Kurt was taken aback by the abrupt shift of "fun-guy" to "therapist". Still, he managed to say, "Dr. Craig, I love Blaine more than anything, but this is my problem to deal with – my problem to deal with on my own."

"And if the roles were reversed?"

"…They aren't."

"Look, Kent, I know this sort of thing is hard – addictive even – and if you need techniques on how to calm yourself down, I can't, in good conscience, deny you them. But I want you to think about what you're doing. I mean, really think about it. Clearly, you're hurting Blaine, and by your insistence to keep this thing a secret, I can bet you know this would hurt a lot of other people in your life that love you, if they knew the truth. But most importantly, I want you to think about you. I want you to realize that those cuts? They are only a temporary fix to a bigger problem, and they always – _always_ – do more harm than good. And I don't just mean physically, because I can assume that you've got scars up the wahzoo to prove that point. No, I mean mentally – emotionally. Cutting is just a symptom, Kent, and I can tell you how to mask it, like you would with aspirin for a headache. But if you were suffering from chronic migraines, would you just keep taking Excedrin, or would you go to your doctor to figure out what was causing them? Aspirin can only work for so long, and the same is true about the methods you're asking me for. To really get better, Kent, to really stop, you have to go for the cause, not just what the cause makes you do or feel."

There was a heavy silence. Kurt swallowed noisily and muttered, "I'll keep that in mind."

"I hope you do," Dr. Craig said sincerely. Then, just as suddenly as he had been thrust into "therapist" mode, with the excited clap of his hands and a goofy grin, he was mister fun-guy again, as he began to rifle through his desk drawers.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a few stacks of paper clipped pamphlets. He took out a few and handed them to Kurt, who looked them over.

"SEVEN BREATHING TECHNIQUES FOR BETTER LIVING"

"HOW TO STOP STRESSING"

and,

"1,2,3: STOP AND THINK"

- were what the covers of them said, printed boldly in flashy colors.

"Thank you," Kurt said, furrowing his brow, wondering about the actual helpfulness the pamphlets could have in his life.

"Don't mention it," Dr. Craig said as he scribbled something down on a piece of scrap paper. He finished and held it also out to Kurt.

"What's this?" he asked, taking the paper.

"My cell phone number. Listen, I know you don't want to talk about whatever is causing this, but I can't help but mention that anxiety is often associated with depression. School is starting for you soon, yes/" Kurt nodded his head while groaning internally. "The added stress of school work on top of what's already eatin' you has the potential to get really ugly. I've seen both panic-anxiety and depression spiral right of control without so much as a warning, Kent. I want you to call me if you even _think_ you might be thinking about something you might regret. Anytime you need me – my phone is always on. Just don't tell the other patients. It's not that I'm super opposed to giving it to them, it's just… well, normally the only crazy people I give my number to are my family members, and trust me – they call me quite enough."

Kurt eyed the scrawled out numbers and finally felt the tiniest bit of relief. Maybe therapy had potential after all. Maybe.

"Thank you."

"No problem. Now skedaddle. My intuition is telling me that there is a very ancy boy waiting for you out in the lobby, and you probably shouldn't keep him waiting too long – he might let his heart beat right out of his chest… In fact, maybe both of you can look over those pamphlets together."

Kurt gave a small smile and got up to leave.

"See you 'round, Kent."

"Dr. Craig," Kurt said, his hand on the doorknob. "My name's not Kent. It's Kurt."

"Really? Huh. I guess I sorta figured that was some sort of cover. Real people aren't named Kent."

"Real people normally aren't named Kurt, either, Dr. Craig."

"An excellent point, Kurt. A very excellent point indeed."


	14. Chapter 14

**WELL I'LL BE DAMNED.**

**Finally an update. I have to admit I have been feeling uninspired because the new Glee canon kind of sucks, but I carry on cos I PROMISED YOU GUYS I'D FINISH, so I'm going to, damnit, because I keep my promises. Unlike Kurt, which you can read about here. Enjoy:**

Chapter 11

"I don't think I'm ready to do this," Kurt mumbled into the receiver of his cell phone.

"You'll be fine, Babe," Blaine's voice came through to his ear, but Kurt wasn't so sure. He imagined Blaine was probably standing in one of the grand hallways of Dalton, waiting for class to start. He would be in his blazer, his hair gelled ridiculously, and his beautiful arms covered, this time because he had no choice – uniform and all.

Kurt himself was in the parking lot of McKinley, and had been for the past ten minutes. He knew Mercedes and Rachel were supposed to be waiting for him at the entrance, and he had promised Santana they'd discuss new fall fashions in first period, but he just couldn't bring himself to get out of his car. He felt as though as if he moved he would vomit, as his flip-floppy stomach had been threatening to do all morning.

It had been exactly two weeks since his visit with Dr. Craig, and so far he had been true to his word to Blaine. No blades had come into contact with his skin since that night after the restaurant. Kurt almost felt like he deserved a little plastic token. "2 WEEK SOBER," or something.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked softly when Kurt hadn't responded.

"I'm afraid." Kurt had his hand in his pants pocket, and had a single finger tip sliding gently to and fro against cool metal. He had kept his promise this long, he had… but after today? There were no guarantees.

"Why are you so afraid, Babe?"

Images of Azimio and his gang coming up to him and slamming him against lockers filled Kurt's head. Thought's of them throwing punches, and singing horrible poems about killing him made goose bumps rise out of every pore on his body. Thoughts of empty hallways and deserted locker rooms made him shiver. Fear for his safety was what tied his stomach up in knots.

"My anxiety," he lied quietly. "I'm afraid of all the people, I dunno, sparking something in me."

"If you feel like you need to… I mean, if you think you're going to do anything… _bad_… promise me you'll call me. No matter what time it is. I'll keep my phone on vibrate. I'll answer it even if I'm in class, just… just call me okay?" Blaine's worry made Kurt's nausea get worse with guilt.

"Okay."

"Go to class, Baby. Everything will be fine."

"Okay," Kurt said again, but he wasn't convinced.

"I love you."

"Love you too."

"I have to go to class."

"I know."

"I'm just a phone call away. Good luck." And after a few seconds, Kurt was met with complete silence, and he knew Blaine had gone.

He forced himself to open his door. He forced himself to grab his bag and trudge his way up towards the school. Even though he was already almost late, he couldn't have made himself move any faster if he tried.

By the time he got to the entrance, Mercedes and Rachel had already gone. He went took a deep breath and went inside, not bothering to hurry to his first class. He was the last to arrive, and most of the seats had been taken. From somewhere crammed up in the middle between a couple of Cheerios and a few dorky looking guys sat Santana, who looked back at Kurt, who mouthed a, "sorry," as he took one of the remaining seats in the back.

School dragged on like this for most of the day. Even though talking to people was one of the last things he felt like doing, he always made sure to walk down the hall with one of his friends, just in case. They didn't know they were acting as body guards for Kurt, and he wasn't about to tell them. So he droned on about leggings and Glee and everything in between with all his friends from Rachel, to Tina, to even Puck, until finally, it was last thing of the day – Glee club.

Kurt was noticeably calmer in the choir room. With all of his friends, and Mr. Schuester, there to keep him safe, he was able to loosen up and just enjoy Mr. Schue talk about how this was 'the year for the big win at Nationals.' He even felt a little excited, which he had to admit – felt good.

It was towards the end of Glee club when he felt his pocket vibrate. He pulled his phone out and tried to check it discreetly, hoping Mr. Schue wouldn't notice him in the back. He didn't recognize the number, which meant he knew exactly who it was.

"Welcome back 2 skool, Hummel. Hope u like our gift."

He had no idea what the meant, but his stomach plummeted all the way to his toes, as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and tried to remember his breathing exercises, because there was no way in Hell he was going to have a panic attack surrounded by all of his friends. His hand immediately slipped into his pocket, and he clasped onto his razor as a sort of stable while he counted his breath – In, 1, 2, 3, 4. Out, 1, 2, 3, 4.

He hated how a stupid text message could do this to him. As far as he knew, they hadn't even done anything, and there was no "gift".

But even still, knowing them, they probably had.

"You okay, Kurt?" Rachel asked, and Kurt jumped, surprised. He had been out of it, trying to stay calm. He came back into focus and realized everyone was getting ready to go.

"Is Glee club over?" he asked stupidly.

"Um… yeah. You look a little pale, Kurt, you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. You know, my sleep schedule's just not into the swing of school hours just yet. Just a little tired is all," he said hurriedly, putting his bag over his shoulder and standing up clumsily, taking his hand out of his pocket, even though he very much did not want to.

"Well, if you're sure," Rachel said, looking skeptical. "Here, I'll walk you to your car." Kurt couldn't object and stay inconspicuous, so he smiled the best he could and let himself be led out of the choir room and through the halls of McKinley, until they were outside in the parking lot.

Rachel spotted it first.

"Oh no!" she cried out, and raised her hand to point. Kurt followed her point directly to his car, which was covered from end to end in raw egg and broken shells.

If this was his gift, then they had done worse, he reasoned, but it was still enough to set a new set of butterflies a flutter in his gut. Rachel was appalled and excitable, jumping up and down, saying things in fast, angry tone that Kurt couldn't seem to make sense of. He caught parts, like, "tell Figgans," and "why your car?", but nothing as a whole.

"I'm sure it was just a first day back at school prank, Rachel," Kurt said much too calmly. "And my car is just the unlucky target."

"But why just yours, Kurt? This seems intentional."

"I think it's just coincidental," Kurt continued to assert. He was absent-mindedly scratching at his arm. "Just a prank."

"Kurt, don't you think we should tell Figgans?"

"I don't really want to," Kurt said, still in his much-too-calm voice. "I'll just take it home and clean it off."

"But… are you sure?" Rachel was glancing around. A few students were watching. The last thing Kurt needed was to make a scene.

"Yeah, Rachel, don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

"Kurt… you don't even seem surprised."

"High schoolers do stupid stuff," was all he had to say in response.

Kurt went to his car and turned on his front and back windshield wipers to wipe away the egg the best he could, and then he took the ice scraper from his backseat, which had been in their since the past winter, and used to it wipe away a bit of the excess egg on the side windows. When he had scraped away enough to be able to drive without killing anyone, he waved half-heartedly to Rachel, and got in his car, and started to drive home.

He pulled up to his house and parked his car. He got out, slammed the door, and stormed up to his house. He was the first one home. Finn was at football practice, and Carole and Burt were at work. He went up to his room, shut the door, and completely lost it.

He started screaming on the top of his lungs. He threw pillows at the wall, and when that didn't satisfy him, he threw a stapler, and a textbook, and a bottle of open lotion. He grabbed loose papers off his desk and threw them all over the room. He kicked his desk, and tore his blankets and sheets and blankets off his bed.

"Why me?" he yelled to no one. "Why won't everyone just leave me alone?" He heaved several ragged breathes before collapsing on the floor.

He felt he had two options.

In his left pocket was his telephone, and in his right was his razor.

"2 WEEKS SOBER"

He could call Blaine right now. He could tell him everything. He could come clean about all the bullying that had happened to him in the summer, and why he's afraid of school. He could tell Blaine, but then he'd have to do something about it, and if he did something about it, more people would know.

And that wasn't going to happen.

He reason out option number two, and reached into his right pocket, and lifted up his shirt.

He was too far away from his desk drawer, so he let the blood dribble down his torso, reveling in how the pain was more intense after not having done it in a while. He closed his eyes and let them roll back into his head as he found his center. As he found his meaning.

He was just about to go clean up, when his bedroom door swung open, and he heard, "Dude, what the Hell happened to your car?" Followed by total silence.

Kurt's eyes snapped open and he found himself face to face with his stepbrother, who was looking at him like he had just seen Death himself, he face was so white.

"Um… dude… what are you doing?"

"Nothing," Kurt said quickly, tugging his shirt down, and regretting it instantly as the fabric rubbed against fresh wounds. He wore a thin shirt that day, too. It only took a second for tiny spots to bleed through, and he knew Finn could see them.

"Kurt…" he said it hesitantly. "Were you like… were you cutting yourself?"

"You can't tell Dad," was all Kurt said. "You can't."

"Shouldn't he know about…?" Finn trailed off. He seemed at a total loss. Neither boy had moved from their spot in the room. Finn's seemingly calm confusion made Kurt less terrified. Maybe he could talk his way out of this.

"No," he said quickly. "No. Definitely not. You know how weak my Dad's heart is, right?"

"…Yeah?"

"This would be terrible for him to know. I've got it under control, Finn. It's just a coping method. There's nothing that wrong with it."

"Kurt…" Finn looked really uncomfortable. "You're hurting yourself. That's bad."

"Not if it's under control," Kurt tried to assure his stepbrother. "And I've got mine under control."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the heck would you do that to yourself?" He gestured awkwardly to the blood seeping through Kurt's shirt.

"… Anxiety," Kurt said, saying his old excuse.

"And what the Hell is up with your car? Burt's going to flip shit if he sees that."

"I know."

"And Rachel said you were really weird at school today, and after she mentioned it, you know, you've been kind of weird for a while."

"Finn, it's really not a big deal."

"I'm supposed to be your brother, man. I'm supposed to look out for you, so if something's going on that's making you… do whatever, you should tell me."

"Finn, I told you, I'm just anxious."

But then Finn said the one thing that Kurt needed to hear.

"If you tell me the truth, I promise I won't tell Burt."

There was a quiet tension between them while Kurt thought about the offer. If Finn was willing to listen – _really_ listen – without any threats… maybe it could give him some real help.

"You have to swear, Finn, I mean, like on your _life_."

"Okay," Finn said, nodding. "Okay." He sat down so he was at the same level as Kurt. "What's going on, man?"

Kurt looked at his hands. "… I've been getting bullied," he started, and the rest just poured out.

By the end of his story, he was shaking, and he was fighting back tears. He scratched at his arms again, while Finn regarded him. Suddenly Kurt was afraid that Finn was going to break his promise. That he was going to tell on him to Burt, and all of this was going to just go to shit. But Finn just shook his head, and said,

"We'll deal with Azimio, Kurt, I promise." He said it with an intensity Kurt had rarely heard his step brother use. "But right now, if we want to hide this from Burt, we need to clean your car…" Finn glanced around Kurt's torn apart room. "And maybe your bedroom. I'll help you, okay? We'll get this sorted out. I'm going to get you through this, okay? That's what brothers are for. We'll handle this."

Finn stood and then offered a hand to Kurt, who took it and let himself be lifted to his feet. About ten or fifteen pounds seemed to be lifted off his shoulders, and he let himself breathe normally again.

"You might want to go clean up that," Finn suggested, pointing to Kurt's stomach. "Are you… do you do that a lot?"

"I try not to," Kurt said.

"You really shouldn't do it."

"You should let me worry about that."

Finn looked about ready to argue, but he thought better of it. Instead, he shrugged, gave Kurt a pat on the shoulder, and said, "Do what you need to do, and meet me outside. I'll go start cleaning off your car."

And though he would never call him it, and even though Finn meant well, that was when Kurt found his enabler. He tucked his phone down a little further in his pocket, and went to the bathroom to clean himself up.


End file.
